


Together

by RAV8



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jonerys, Post S8 AU, Post-Canon Fix-It, Pregnant Daenerys Targaryen, Pregnant Sex, Targaryen Restoration, Throne room redemption, relationship realism, supportive baes, the boatbaby that was promised
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2020-05-15 20:41:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 48,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19303450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RAV8/pseuds/RAV8
Summary: “Be with me. Build the new world with me. This is our reason. It has been since the beginning, since you were a little boy with a bastard’s name and I was a little girl who couldn’t count to twenty. We do it together. We break the wheel, together.”He understands that he has betrayed and avoided her and yet here she is offering her heart again, offering a future and perhaps a throne to share and he feels shame at her continued hope and generosity. His heart is wrecked with anguish and doubt and yet he knows he loves her still, despite all he’s seen her do and be.“You are my queen, now and always.”The echoes of Tyrion’s warnings clatter against his skull as her tongue darts into his mouth, blurring his mind with how safe she feels. He feels another wave of shame duel against the wave of his desire. This is how it’s been each time he’s kissed her since he found out. This battle within. And yet. And still. And again. He wants her. How can he still yearn for her so earnestly? This conqueror, this killer, this aunt of his.“Together?” He whispers, it is half statement, half question.----Canon Divergent Post 8x06 Throne Room scene wherein Jon accepts her offer to Break the Wheel Together





	1. Throne Room Redemption

When she turns around to sit and sees him at the entrance to the throne room, she only feels the joy and the warmth of a welcome. Even now, despite her better judgement, his presence encourages her, but rather than question her irrationality, she welcomes the sensation. It feels right, fitting even that he should find her here, that they should be in this throne room, together. She is already aglow with a fluttering excitement inspired by the sight of this throne. _Finally_. She’s not surprised by how familiar it feels. Its presence feels almost sentient. But this time it is not a memory or a vision, it’s true. Cold iron beneath her palm, warming her heart. She continues to flush with a childlike exuberance, as she turns to him wanting to share with him, this, her memories, her satisfaction and more importantly, her dreams for the future of this throne.

 

“When I was a girl, my brother told me it was made with a thousand swords from Aegon’s fallen enemies. What do a thousand swords look like in the mind of a little girl who can’t count to twenty? I imagined a mountain of swords too high to climb. So many fallen enemies you could only see the soles of Aegon’s feet.”

 

This is not the first time she’s shared anecdotes about her childhood but they have been scarce for they are precious close to her heart and yet before she can continue he cuts her off, rudely, irreverently.

 

“I saw them executing Lannister prisoners in the street.”

 

She feels the cinders of her annoyance alight anew.

 

“They said they were acting on your orders.”

 

The way his judgment dampens her reveries, she feels a coldness in her returning and she tries to push it away. He has frustrated her, in this way, since the day they met. Stubborn, sanctimonious. But she won’t have her mood spoiled.

 

“It was necessary.” She replies curtly. She won’t justify herself to him.

 

“Necessary. Have you been down there? Have you seen? Children, little children _burned_!”

 

She winces. She’s never heard him raise his voice at her before. When was the last time anyone had raised a voice at her? It should infuriate her and yet, it does not. She hears his pain, his passion, his rage. It echoes her own. This is the most authenticity she’s seen him express in weeks and the enormity of his feelings reminds her of herself. There is an ember inside of her that sparks alive with admiration for his anger and another that ignites appreciation for his confidence to engage her, to contradict her, even. This is the least subservient he’s behaved in weeks and she welcomes it. Everyone else who’s judged her choices has plotted behind her back and here he is, albeit in disagreement yet meeting her as a counterpart, without fear. It feels good. A deep current of calm and resolve grows within her.

It’s her turn this time, to temper the fire, in him.

Her voice softens, placating and gentle, explaining.

 

“I tried to make peace with Cersei. She used their innocence as a weapon against me. She thought it would cripple me.”

 

He seems to acquiesce to this. He remembers all the times she’s used restraint.

 

“And Tyrion?”

 

This is not up for debate. She steps forward.

 

“He conspired behind my back with my enemies. How have you treated people who have done the same to you? Even when it broke your heart?”

 

This is a dig at his tenderness and she knows it. He had bared much vulnerability to her on that ship, in those hours before dawn, their naked bodies, curled together, he’d shared his most private moments. When he’d told her about the mutiny that had murdered him, the way he’d hung Olly and the others afterwards, he had trembled with the recollection and she’d held him in her arms and caressed his scars. That was one of the only times she’d seen him weep.

 

“Forgive him.”

 

“I can’t.”

 

The truth is she wishes she could. If only it could be that simple. If only she could send him off into exile, like she’d done with Jorah, and wish him the best. She cares for Tyrion. She truly, does. Frankly, she does prefer mercy, to execution. But this is no longer about her preferences. This is about necessity. She cannot risk it. There is so much more than her, at stake, now. The liability of his life is too high. He has nothing left to lose anymore and she has everything to lose.

 

“You can. You can forgive all of them, make them see they made a mistake. Make them understand.”

 

She considers how much to tell him. Whether she can trust him with her innermost thoughts.

 

“Please Dany.”

 

He is pleading and tearful and she can relate to his feelings of desperation. She feels sympathy for his distress, for the way he is clinging to a futile hope for a different way. But she’s already analyzed the array of options. This _is_ the only way. And she won’t explain all of this to him, yet. He hasn’t earned it. She needs him to accept her choices at face value. To believe in her.

 

“We can’t hide behind small mercies. The world we need won’t be built by men loyal to the world we have.”

 

Small mercies nearly got her killed. She will not make those mistakes again.

 

“The world we need is a world of mercy. It has to be.”

 

Her heart softens to him, in that moment. His face awash with the sad tenderness of a little boy, her heart brims with pain seeing how young he looks full of sorrow and misplaced hope. She wants to soothe his hurt and balm his heart, assure him of the certainties she knows, of the dreams that are within reach, of the world within their grasp, the one she will build for them, for their future. She wants him to know the vastness of her mercies. And of the greatness of the world yet to be built.

 

“And it _will_ be. It’s not easy to see something that’s never been before. A good world.”

 

The optimistic certainty in her voice is deafening.

 

“How do you know? How do you know it’ll be good?”

 

He wants conviction from her and she is wealthy with it.

 

“Because I know what is good. And so do you.”

 

“I don’t.”

 

He is so full of doubt, of fear. She had felt that way herself, just a week ago, she understands the pit of despair that comes with loss of faith. It was so recent. So she persists, encouraging.

 

“You do. You do, you’ve always known.”

 

She speaks to him the way she would their child. A gentle affirmation, contradicting his self-doubt. His eyes are dark pools, glistening with pain, her hand on his heart, pressing faith into him the best way she knows how.

 

“What about everyone else? All the other people who think they know what’s good?”

 

“They don’t get to choose.”

 

He feels a flicker of fear at the resoluteness in her eyes and yet their bodies are pressed together, her softness welcoming and he brings a hand to cup her cheek. Her eyes are a glitter, earnest and brimming with love.

His head has been swimming with the stench of death, with the recent memories of destruction and yet when she is pressed here against him, all he sees are those violet orbs, and he inhales the sweet freshness of her breath, the cleanest scent in this acrid air.

 

“Be with me. Build the new world with me. This is our reason. It has been since the beginning, since you were a little boy with a bastard’s name and I was a little girl who couldn’t count to twenty. We do it together. We break the wheel, together.”

 

He understands that he has betrayed and avoided her and yet here she is offering her heart again, offering a future and perhaps a throne to share and he feels shame at her continued hope and generosity. His heart is wrecked with anguish and doubt and yet he knows he loves her still, despite all he’s seen her do and be.

 

“You are my queen, now and always.”

 

When their lips meet, he feels like a beach stranded boulder and she is a tsunami wave crashing around him. He knows she’ll turn him to dust with the ages and yet he welcomes the battering of her will, her body against his. He lets his hand drop from her face to his side. For a moment, his fingertips brush against the hilt of the blade. The echoes of Tyrion’s warnings clatter against his skull as her tongue darts into his mouth, blurring his mind with how safe she feels. And he feels another wave of shame duel against the wave of his desire. This is how it’s been each time he’s kissed her since he found out. This battle within. And yet. And still. And again. He wants her. How can he still yearn for her so earnestly? This conqueror, this killer, this aunt of his.

 

For weeks, shame has been his dominant emotion. For weeks? Nay perhaps his entire life. And he’s angry at shame’s presumptuous existence. At this moment shame is the only thing he wants to kill.

 

He brings his hand back to her face and then the other, the softness of her face held firmly against him. He is so tired of battling, with others and with his own mind. He doesn’t want to think anymore, doesn’t want to question himself or her, he just wants to taste her purity. He wants to drink in the conviction she offers like a spring and believe. Believe in what she says, despite all that he’s seen, that perhaps together they can do this better.

 

He presses into her more deeply, his mouth opening wider welcoming her tongue. Her hands wrap around his neck, their tongues dancing and darting with the urgency of dragons aflight. He surrenders, into thoughtlessness, adrift in the warm fire of his body pressed against hers. Her fingertips, caress his neck and he feels sharp currents travel down his cock, electricity shooting down to his boot clad toes. He inhales raggedly and suckles her lips, one hand travels to the back of her neck, his fingers tangle into her silver tendrils and he breathes her in happy to douse himself in her scent.

 

He gingerly separates his mouth from hers, pulling back to look evenly into her eyes. He sees the question, the concern in hers. Twice before he’s pulled back. Will this be the third?

 

“Together?” He whispers, it is half statement, half question. His eyes dart back and forth between hers. When he’s this close, he can see the ring of gold bursting around her pupils.

 

She exhales a gentle nod. Their noses kissing.

 

“Together.” This time it is a statement, not a question. She smiles and then his lips are pressed against hers again. She relaxes with tender relief, softening into his arms, while strengthening the force of her tongue’s explorations. She’s mewing against him and then his mouth is against her neck, the scent behind her ears, dousing him in tactile memories of their bodies voraciously merging. Even here, in the aftermaths of a battle, she smells like a summer breeze. The sky above is dark and shadowed but when he inhales her skin, he sees blue skies so he keeps kissing her. And kissing her. And he doesn’t notice how he’s moving them backwards, her steps retreating, responding to the thrum of his forward march, their bodies coming closer to the steps of her throne.

 

She gasps as he releases her lower lip once more and nimbly moves to murmur and suckle at her neck, just above the silk of her scarf. He takes more of her between his teeth and clamps down hungrily, her next moan pitched higher and tinged with pain rouses him back to awareness. He pulls back and looks into her surprised eyes and she lets out a ragged exhale before a knowing smile forms on her face. He bit her harder than he’d meant to and she enjoyed it. He sees the fire of arousal in her eyes and he feels himself hardening. There is a new flush to her cheeks and the intensity of her gaze is both challenging and welcoming. She begins to lean forward and then stops herself, closes her eyes for a moment as though internally composing herself. When she opens them, the fierceness has been replaced with vulnerability.

 

“Jon.” She breathes softly. Inhaling deeply and stepping her feet apart more steadily, her chin tilted up at him, a soft resolve forming on her face.

 

“We need to talk.”

 

He feels sheepish and lowers his eyes. That shame he’d tried to exile, screaming in his ear once again. He nods.

 

“Not here.” She nods tossing her head toward the throne. His brow furrows with a question.

 

“There is a bath in my makeshift chambers.” She instructs as her eyes dart around to his battle stained clothes, her fingers brushing ash off his shoulders.

 

“I’ll meet you there.” He nods and locks eyes with her again. Mourning and longing, respect and shame, all the milieu of contradictory feelings fight for prominence, winding and unwinding inside of him. Her violet eyes meet his shyly. He presses one last kiss against her, she rewards him with a smile.

 

He bows his head and turns to leave, taking a step away, but pauses as he feels the press of her fingers gripping his arm. He turns back and holds her gaze, a silent question on his own as a cloud of sorrow softens her face.

 

“I _am_ sorry about the children.” She murmurs. Her eyes moisten while her brows furrow and his heart clammers into his throat as he comprehends her admission, and registers the authenticity of her grief.

 

They exhale in unison, anguished eyes locked in compassion. A subtle understanding passing between them both. Another beat, and then he swallows, resolve regained. He nods and turns.

 

Daenerys waits until he’s gone before turning back to sit on her throne.

 

* * *

 

Dusk is already falling when she finally arrives. It had taken longer than he’d expected, and he had felt his anxiety rise as he waited, though he’d had plenty to keep himself busy.

 

He’d bathed himself in the same water from her previous bath and then soaked and scrubbed his filthy war grimed clothes before he’d emptied out the tub himself, all of which had taken time. He’d discovered the dilemma of hanging his clothes to dry in an environment with little sun and ashen sky. He frowned at his state of undress. How to get and stay clean? How had she done it? How had she smelled of rose and sandalwood earlier?

He had hung some items from the posters of the bed and donned his damp underclothes.

 

Her temporary quarters are in the undamaged Maidenvault. It is comfortably bare and yet still oddly Lannister-ian and he feels uncomfortable. It reminds him too much of Tyrion, whom he has no desire to see again, today, to relay to him, his choice to continue loving his queen.

He’d tolerated the treasonous speech and contemplated its implications more with regard to what it indicates about Tyrion's proclivities toward murder. He’d endured a knife to the heart. Several knives to many organs, actually. Of all the betrayals he was capable of, that had never been one of them.

 

He feels his body rumble with hunger and is pleasantly surprised when she appears with an Unsullied officer behind her carrying trays of food.

 

“Good evening. Are you hungry?” She asks. “I made us some dinner.” She smiles coyly, noticing his state of semi undress while setting the trays on a table in the room. She nods to the soldier, as he sets down his load, murmurs something in Valyrian before he bows and shuts the door behind her.

 

“ _Made_ dinner?” Jon cocks an eyebrow at her slightly incredulous and steps forward to greet her with a kiss.

 

She accepts but keeps the kiss chaste and then swats his bare chest, frown-smirking back.

 

“Indeed, Lord Snow. Are you surprised your queen can cook?”

 

“I am.” He nods in resignation and grins despite himself. Slight wonder forming in his mind at all the magnificent and mundane ways she continues to surprise him.

 

She pretends indignation and continues organizing the trays.

 

“Well I can and I do … sometimes.” She admits while nimbly finalizing the arrangement

“I was a very good little wife, once …” Her hands freeze in front of her as her voice trails off. She looks up at him, a look of regal embarrassment on her face. She swallows, composing herself but he feels sheepish also.

 

“Well, I thank you, your grace.” He puts a hand to his own stomach and opts for transparency.

“I’m actually quite hungry.”

 

She nods and motions with her head that they may sit down together.

 

“But I don’t believe I’m dressed for supper.” He shrugs his shoulders up indicating his pseudo helplessness.

 

She exhales a small chuckle and shakes her head.

For a moment he watches her mind accelerate into problem solving. And then she stops.

 

“It’s fine.” She shrugs, casually, and she sits down in her chair waiting for him expectantly.

 

“Unless you’re bothered ...?” She teases.

 

“Only bothered by our imbalanced power dynamic.” He motions between them. Referencing her fully clad frame.

 

“But I suppose that’s something I need to get used to.”

 

The words hang in the air as each considers the more subtle implications. Her face takes on a gently impassive look. He is surprised by how much he’s just revealed. But then, he’s always been the most honest when naked before her.

 

“Well, I’m glad you’re speaking plainly.” She holds his eye as she acknowledges both him and his statement.

 

He swallows and inhales deliberately as he steps forward to greet her again. He wants to kiss her again but sees her indicating for him sit. The mood is tender tenuous.

 

He looks down and his eyes widen.

 

“You really made this?” He asks, this time earnest and humbled.

 

It is a simple but beautiful spread. She’s aptly arranged some fruit, nuts and cheeses.

There is freshly baked bread, sautéed greens, scrambled eggs and some grains. But the display itself impresses him. He notices details in the garnish.

 

“It’s not much.” She admits looking down. “But the eggs and greens are fresh.”

 

“The kitchens are …?”

 

“Spared.” She admits gratefully and without guilt. Her soldiers need to eat. It was the first thing she’d overseen.

 

“I didn’t bake the bread, though.” She is trying to be honest, also, he can see.

 

He nods in deep appreciation and reaches for a glass of wine she’s poured as she reaches to raise her goblet.

 

“To Westeros.” She murmurs solemnly and softly.

 

“To Westeros.” He agrees.

 

They eat a few bites in silence before she offers up more conversation. There is no way to authentically feign indifference to their context. The last time they’d shared a semi-nude meal had been on the Ship, the trip on the King’s Road had been much too cold. How many weeks or months ago had that been? It felt like lifetimes. Too long. And here they were, supping in a semi demolished Red Keep, ash still falling outside the window. Two armies resting within the gates and a city in wreckage, beyond.

Still, they are together. Sharing a meal and there is both a slight tension in the air and also the intimate ease of previous familiarity.

 

“Hmm. Tis’ delicious.” He murmurs in honest gratitude, digging deeply into his meal, as his hunger takes over. She smiles appreciatively.

 

“I’ve been cooking my own meals the last couple of weeks, so I’m not as ill practiced.” She nods, her head cast down. His head shoots up.

 

“Cooking your own meals?” He inquires. She slowly raises her eyes to meet his and nods but offers nothing else.

 

“Why?”

 

She looks vulnerable suddenly, swallowing slowly as she holds his gaze.

 

“Because I was concerned I was being poisoned.” She admits. Her eyes regard him poignantly observing his response. He frowns.

 

“Dany. You don’t really think …” He trails off as she stiffens and her eyes harden.

 

She scowls impatiently frustrated at his dismissal.

 

“I don’t think, I _know_ , Jon.” She holds his eyes impassively and allows that statement to settle before reaching back to her goblet.

 

“That’s why I executed Varys.” She explains in a tone of remarkable equanimity.

 

He coughs slightly.

 

“ _That’s_ why? I thought …”

 

“I know what you thought, Jon.” She bristles with acrid annoyance at him and he cringes at her scathing tone.

She notices his recoil and takes a deep breath. She can feel the anger growing inside her and that’s not what she wants to bring to this conversation. What does she want? She wants to know where he stands. What the breadth and depth of his loyalties are. Can they really do this together? Is he truly willing, capable? Of many things, but especially of trusting her?

 

“Yes, he conspired against me by sending out ravens to all the major houses, revealing your identity, your _claim_.” She pauses for effect. He feels his cheeks warm and he cowers slightly.

 

“ _And_ he tried to poison me.” She nods and takes another bite. Then offhandedly. “For the second time.”

 

He scowls in surprise and bewilderment. Eyes furled into a question mark.

 

“Twice?”

 

She nods. “He first tried to poison me when I was carrying Drogo’s child.” She looks at him then, pointedly. “He was serving Robert Baratheon at the time.” She admits. “Different ruler, different rules.” She shrugs almost casually. “I pardoned him. And allowed him a position on the small council with the understanding that I would not hesitate to burn him alive, should he betray me again.” She leans back in her chair, her violet eyes unwavering. “He did. And I am a woman of my word.” She holds onto his eyes steady now, daring him to argue with her or look away.

 

He doesn’t. Instead he marvels at her conviction. Her shamelessness. All his life he’s dealt with shame. And here she is, explaining her choices to him almost tediously, without an ounce of shame.

 

He pauses and inhales collecting himself, remorsefully.

 

“I’m so sorry, Dany. I didn’t know.” He holds such tenderness and apology in his eyes and yet she still bristles at receiving it. She looks away, then, down at her food. She can feel the indignation building and something else, something more painful, more frightening. He watches her, her eyes cast down busy on her plate until she murmurs something more.

 

“You didn’t ask.”

 

He exhales with a hiss as he feels a crack in his chest as though he’s been whacked on one of his still tender stab wounds, the pain of understanding and shame washing over him. His appetite abandons him as the truth settles in his gut. She is gazing up at him from under her eyelashes. Vulnerable despite all her armor.

 

He feels his shoulders slump in defeat as he brings his hands up to his face, passing them over his eyes. No, he hadn’t. He hadn’t asked. Not once. He’d been so preoccupied with his own myopic thoughts and feelings about his parentage, he hadn’t considered her outside of considering his own shame around wanting her.

 

He groans in self debasement and lifts his hands from his face to meet her eyes. He wants to throw himself at her feet, clasp her hands in his and beg apology. And yet, he restrains himself from that dramatic display. She is still gazing at him, pensively, curiously. Waiting.

 

He hooks a hand on his chair and moves it closer so they are nearer and eye level. Her hands are in her lap, clasped. He thinks to hold them but instead, lays his hands gently on her knees and tilts his head to hers.

 

“Dany.” He sighs. “I’m so sorry.” He exhales deeper. “I’m sorry for all the ways I’ve failed you, as of late. For misunderstanding and not seeking to understand better. I’m sorry I’ve been so self-preoccupied that I failed to protect you.”

 

Her acceptance is tentative. She holds her pride close.

 

“I’m fine.” She murmurs. “I know how to protect myself.”

 

This cracks him even further. He knows it’s true. She who was orphaned and sold as a child bride, she who has crossed deserts and oceans, she who has slayed warlocks and wights who commands armies and navies and dragons. She’s always protected herself. And he studies her closer. She still is.

 

“Of course you do. But you shouldn’t have to protect yourself from me.” He declares. Her eyes widen in surprise.

They are close enough their breath mingles between them.

 

“Why is that?”

 

She asks, not demanding, not indignant, not debating. She asks, plainly with an innocent curiosity.

 

“Because I love you, Dany.”

 

This answer is insufficient. She looks at him smiling sadly almost patronizing.

 

“And what does that love _mean_ to you, Jon?”

 

Before he can answer, she continues.

 

“Because I’ve been loved by many men. And they’ve all died, betrayed me, or both. Even you.”

 

The last is not a judgement, just a calm statement of fact. He looks at her aghast and pensive. She’s laying down her truths.

 

“What did your love mean at Winterfell when you trusted Sansa instead of me? And what did your love mean this last week, when you followed your declaration of love with rejection? What is love when it’s sheathed in shame?”

 

His cheeks flush hot. His mind is mesmerized by her even as it is humbled. What time is it? Barely dusk. Here she is, clean and contained, supping unbothered, yet she laid waste to a city just yesterday. She has already organized and addressed her troops and cooked dinner and here she is, calmly questioning the quality of his love? As though it’s just a private evening between two lovers philosophically adrift. He is baffled by her. And all of her questions ring with a poignancy he must address.

 

She studies his face briefly and then reaches back to her food. He realizes she’s being generous with him. Giving him time to collect his thoughts.

 

“I’m not ashamed of you.” He finally asserts even though he still feels hot in the face, like a chastised child.

 

“No?” She asks, with a gentle incredulity. “Because I remember your disdain …”

 

He cuts her off firmly “No.” He shakes his head, adamantly.

 

“I’ve been ashamed of myself.” He admits. His shoulders stooping in resignation. At this she frowns and inquires with her eyes.

 

“… because of our relation?” She asks leadingly.

 

He nods and then shakes his head again in frustration. He is struggling for the right words to express himself.

 

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

 

“No!” He manages to force out.

 

“It’s not. It’s not about you about your – our relation. It’s about me. About who I am. Who I thought I was. Who I thought I wanted to be.”

 

She sits back. Patient. Attentive.

 

“I only ever wanted to be a Stark, Dany. Just a trueborn Stark. Not even a lord, just a knight maybe. So I could fight with honor and belong in my own home. Belong to my own family.”

 

His knuckles are clenched on his thighs.

 

“I never wanted any of this. Not to be Commander of the Night watch, not to be King in the North, and certainly **not** to be the godamn heir to the seven fucking kingdoms.”

 

She raises her eyebrows.

 

“I know I’ve told you I don’t want it but Dany” he’s begging to be understood. “I _really_ don’t want it. I don’t want anything bought with so much blood.”

 

Her eyes darken and she stiffens. He pauses looking at her plaintively. He recognizes her offense but travels forward anyway.

 

“Not just today” His arm raises indicating the space around them, referencing the death filled days they’ve had.

 

“Not just today, Dany. All of it. From the beginning. Or at the very least my own. All my life I’ve believed in the honor of my father, the goodness of our House. And most of it was a lie. An honorable lie to be sure, but a lie nonetheless. And Ned, he saved my life – and I’m grateful, I am – but at what cost? To his own marriage, to the entire kingdom. From the moment I was made, I’ve been a shameful secret.”

 

He’s breathing heavily now. The words are spilling forth and she feels her own breath quicken as she listens, focused and cautious.

 

“I’ve been ashamed of _their_ love, Dany.”

 

Her eyes widen with a semblance of understanding.

 

“How many thousands of people have died because of the rashness of Rhaegar and Lyanna? He destroyed his marriage for her, abandoned his children for her, threw a continent asunder for her. And for what? They still died, apart and alone and misunderstood. What good was all the love they shared? It killed them and near everyone around them. Except for me.” At this he throws up his hands in defeat.

 

“I’m here and I’m what? Not a bastard, not a Stark. Not even a Jon. I don’t know what or who I am anymore. Except, I’m still a stain, still a terrible secret, one even you want to hide.”

 

She feels her heart plummet into her stomach. Tears spring to her eyes unbidden.

 

“And I hate him, Dany. I hate Rhaegar for all of this. For putting love ahead of duty, for being arrogant and irresponsible. For making me and then outright dying, leaving me to this.” He motions out the window. “His blood drenched legacy. It would be easier to be a bastard, than be this.” He motions toward himself and shakes his head in a caustic laugh. “His son.” But he’s not done. He looks her in the eye fiercely, defiantly.

 

“And you know what’s worse than all of that? I _understand_.”

 

At this he pauses, catching his breath. His chest is heaving. She’s stopped breathing. Her inhale caught in her throat. Their eyes are locked, tears are glistening in hers.

 

He drops his head in his hands, shaking them in grief. She is swallowing fiercely, fighting the tension in her chest, the nausea caught in her throat, the earthquake in her heart.

 

_What is honor compared to a woman’s love?_

 

He looks up now, his dark eyes a lake of tender swept mourning, he peers up at her, looking like a bashful little boy, thick lashes wet with unshed tears.

 

“I understand, Dany.” It comes out a guttural moan. He looks up at her, pain etched in his face, his eyes full of longing. “When I look at you.” And he does. He looks at her. Clear through to her bones.  Unrepentant and adoringly he refuses to look away and she’s tethered to his unwavering eyes. “When I _see_ you. When I see Daenerys Stormborn, the woman, not the queen or the conqueror or the mother of dragons, even though you are all of that and none of that and even more still. When I hear your laugh, when I feel your heartbeat next to mine, when I’m _inside_ of you.” He swallows. “I understand _exactly_ why he did what he did. Why he risked it all.”

 

She’s not sure if her heart is shattering or expanding.

 

“And I’m terrified, yes. I’m ashamed, it’s true. To become my father’s son.”

 

With that he tears his eyes away and lowers them.

 

“To risk so much, for love.”

He feels a glimmer of his previous shame returning. He feels her hand on his cheek and lifts his head to say something more, but her mouth is on his before he can exhale and there is a dampness on his cheeks and he’s not sure if they are his tears or hers but there is a fervent fire and a tenderness in her touch that encourages him to sink into the depths of her mouth where it feels like home and tempest all at the same time. And then he remembers what he was going to say and pulls back reluctantly.

 

“Dany.” He cries, gasping for air. Her hands are still around his face. He raises one of his to join hers and leans back slightly to look at her squarely once more.

 

“Gods, Dany. You slaughtered a city. You did. And you’re his sister. And I love you, still. And I hate you a little bit, also. Just as much as I hate him, and my own self. Because who am I, Dany? If I can be who I am, and watch you do what you did, and still yearn to love and protect you, anyway? Now and always.”

 

He sighs, defeated. Spent. It’s all out. All of it. From this moment forward there will be no more secrets. Not from him. And she is staring at him, wide eyed, and astonished. Enraptured, by his truth entranced by his presence. She’s never heard anything like this all encompassing honesty he’s delivered. Never seen anyone like him, this man, sitting before her. All dignity and honor. All grit and heart. All fire and ice. All Aegon Targaryen VI of his name.

 

* * *

 

“Thank you.” She whispers.

 

They sit in pregnant silence together for a while. Together and apart. Both, imbibing the immensity of his share. She feels meaning and love travel through her bloodstream like heady wine pulsing like a steady war drum.

 

She tries to quiet the infantile and human emotions of defensiveness and indignation at his array of indictments toward her. She focuses on his love, his truth, his devotion. On the revelation that he is coming into himself and coming back to her. She believes in herself, she knows he does not agree with all of her choices, and likely never will. That’s ok. Agreement is not equivalent to acceptance and as far as she can tell, he continues to offer that. It’s the nearest thing to Love she knows. And still, she wants understanding, also.

 

Neither are eating any longer. And after such a long pause she feels him eyeing her with, curiosity, with expectation?

 

It’s her turn. One of her hands rests on her lower belly, the other is on the table. She sighs.

She feels remarkably unready. And she marvels at all the forms courage takes. She takes a sip from her goblet to parch the dryness in her throat. His eyes continue to bore into her and she feels her chest tremble.

 

“And what of Lyanna?” She asks him.

 

He seems taken aback. This question does not track for him. He was expecting a response perhaps, but not this veer. This both does and does not surprise her.

 

“Rhaegal led tens of thousands to their death to defend her, to defend you.” She murmurs. “What would she have done in his stead?”

 

“I don’t understand.” He admits. He doesn’t know where she’s going with this.

 

“From what I understand, Lyanna was no victim of passion, rather a warrior princess in her own right.” Dany continues.

 

“I hear you blaming and questioning the Targaryen in you, Jon. I don’t like it but I do understand it and yet what of Lyanna Stark? What of her honor, her complicity and her responsibility?

 

He frowns considering this.

 

“She chose to rebuke her betrothal in favor of love, to follow Rhaegar – who was not only a married man and a father but the heir to the throne. Was that rash, Jon? Or bold beyond comprehension?”

 

She pauses lingering on his face as he inhales watching him mull over this idea, before she continues.

 

“She followed him, knowing war would follow close behind them. Then what did she do? She hid away in Dorne, for Love. For him, for you. She believed in their love and she believed what she carried inside her was more valuable than the cost of disarray their union caused. She protected you the best she knew how, but she also didn’t live long enough to see what became of her choices, of the lives lost to protect her secret, or of the wrecked world left behind for her son. But if she had lived, if she’d had armies like Rhaegar, if she’d had dragons like me. What do you think she’d have done to ensure her love and your life remained, safe?”

 

He’s at a loss. This conversation has become a labyrinth he’s trying to blindly decipher through. His mind does not do well with abstractions and hypotheticals. He knows how to think concretely. She seems frustrated at his obliviousness. She shakes her head, smooths her skirts and stands, crossing the room.

 

She presses a hand to her belly turned away from him, steadying herself before she turns back around an expectant question on her face. He’s pivoted in his chair to look at her.

 

“I … I don’t know.” He stammers. “I’m not a mother.” He offers helplessly. At this she feels an ire.

 

“No, you’re not! But _I_ am!” His eyes widen. She looks down at him from steps away, hand still resting on her belly. A far away look in her eyes.

 

“When I was carrying Rhaego and Drogo was injured, I prioritized him.” She admits sadly.

 

“Because I believed his strength would protect me and the son I carried. He could not. Do you understand? I trusted in the strength of a man rather than my own and I lost them both. I lost my child, my family by making decisions from a place of desperation rather than from a place of strength. Before my dragons, I was just a khal’s a wife, not a khaleesi in my own right. I had no power without Drogo’s protection. I’ve since forged my own destiny from the fire of my own choices, and I protect myself by seizing power and exercising my strengths.  
  
My dragons have been my strength. They were not beasts or weapons to me, they were my children, the only true family I’ve ever known.” She pauses pointedly at him. He winces slightly.

 

“I watched them brutally slain, one by one. There was no mercy offered for Viserion or Rhaegal and the Lannisters would have done the same to Drogon, to my baby.”

 

She levels her eyes at him. He is focused and listening and still slightly confused. He shakes his head.

She course corrects.

 

“When the Mereneese nobles surrendered without force, they rose up in rebellion immediately. I know what it means to offer mercy, only to have that mercy rebuked and weaponized against me. It would have been no different here had I left a Lannister army intact and poised for a coup.”

 

He nods. Military strategy is easier for him to conceptualize than motherhood. He doesn’t agree with her rationale but he is following along.

 

“Jon, the seven kingdoms have never seen wars this brief. You’re upset that I leveled the city. The civilians losses were certainly _lamentable_ ” She admits solemnly. “but perhaps it feels more harrowing because of its efficiency. When men fight, the power struggles last seasons, years even. The death count mounts and persist for generations while Mothers everywhere continue to be powerless to protect their children, from famine and violence and fear.”

 

“What I did for expediency, required collateral damage to be sure, but it’s over now. Ash is a most potent fertilizer. Next year King’s Landing will see new crops, new babies, new families growing and flourishing. And there won’t be a rebellion to contest that peace or disrupt that restoration. What house will stand against me now?” _Except yours._ She thinks silently.

 

Her face softens. She steps forward. And he rises to stand in front of her.

 

“Jon, you’re here because your mother exercised her strengths, she did what was within her power to protect you. I’m grateful to Lyanna. She did what any mother would do and what Elia could not. Your brother’s head was shattered against these castle’s walls.” He winces at the image.

 

“That could have been you but instead you are here, because of the strategic strength of your mother’s love. But I am not Lyanna or Elia or even Rhaella. I am Daenerys and I have a dragon. I accomplished what no mother has before me. After yesterday, no one will dare to murder another Targaryen baby. Today, the world is safer.”

 

Their eyes are locked. Her breaths are deep and even, there is a solemn clarity in her violet eyes, even as he searches hers for understanding. She is standing stoically, unapologetically, her shoulders squared, her hands clasped together in front of her, body stance sturdy if not slightly weary. But her face is soft, open, seeking something in him. He lets the meaning of her words linger and sips them down, lingering on the flavor. He watches her watching him, searching for understanding in his eyes. And then the understanding comes like dawn, with subtle hues, such as the faintest aurora pink that effervescently bursts to violet. Like her eyes.

 

His heart pounds. He steps forward, close enough to see her pupils dilate. And his eyes plummet downward where her hands are clasped.

 

“Are you …?” He asks, returning to her gaze, his eyes wide and innocent, pleading for confirmation that he’s not a madman for believing what he thinks he’s believing right now.

 

She exhales with force as though she’s been holding her breath, she closes her eyes in the softest of nods, presses her hand to her belly then looks up at him from behind dark lashes, her eyebrows tilted inward, in a way he’s only seen when she’s naked and feeling shy but welcoming.

His mouth is agape as his eyes flutter back and forth from hers locked in a duel of understanding while the knowing descends on his shoulders, the weight of enormous love and even more enormous duty.

She nods deeper this time, affirming while also biting her lip with a tender uncertainty he’s never seen before. He leans in, inhaling. She leans forward.

 

“Is that alright?” She whispers.

 

He exhales in a half laugh, reaching instinctively with his arm, pulling her to his chest by her waist, this time with no temerity. His other hand cupping her face.

 

“Yes.” He breathes. His eyes full of longing and even more questions. He sees relief cross over her face, feels her body relax and he realizes she’s been guarding herself this whole time. She’s been afraid, he realizes. Oh gods, she’s been so afraid. He aches for her and the layers of understanding land softly like the ash outside, billowing around him even as he’s focused on the timid yet open expression on her face.

_What is duty against the feel of a newborn in your arms ..._

  
He reaches down and kisses her deeply, willing his mouth to infuse her body with security and promise.  
When he pulls away, his face is criss-crossed with concern. There’s so much he needs to know.

 

“How far along?” he asks, a mildly dumbfounded expression still lingering on his features.

 

At this she purses her lips and turns her head to the side. She doesn’t know why she feels like a child caught in a forbidden mischief. She returns to his gaze.

 

“Three moons … or so.” She murmurs tentatively. She realizes she’s been guarding this secret for so long, it still feels improper to share it, even with him. And despite what she’s told him about the safety she’s built, she knows this news, once public, will only put her in more danger. No matter how many enemies she destroys, the threats persist as does the fear.

 

His eyes widen even further and his eyes glance up and dart around. She knows he’s doing arithmetic, calculating the depths of her chosen clandestineness. She waits for his response, still cautious. And then it lands, his second hand to her hip and his eyes on hers.

 

“Dany, that whole time at Winterfell?” She nods. She resents the sheepishness she’s feeling. His hands travel up to her shoulders, then to her face, to her hair, then back down again, His eyes following roaming, pondering, restless with the speed of his integration. He furls his brow again.

 

“Since … the boat?” He’s landed on the timing. She feels herself blush as she nods. That floating fortnight remains indubitably pure for her. Regardless of what came after, that time together was a precious cocoon of sincerity and intimacy that she will carry in her heart ‘til its last beat. She is grateful every time she remembers the sway of that ship, the warmth of those furs, the dark embers reflected in his eyes every time their bodies joined in their primal dance of unity. She brims with gratitude every time she recalls how their child was conceived with the love and safety of that voyage.

 

Whereas she is reminiscing, he looks overwhelmed. He sighs deeply, allowing the timeline to register then he looks back at his chair and moves to sit down, tugging at her gently with his left hand.

 

He descends with gravitas and pulls her into his lap. She chuckles softly at his inelegance as she plops down, slinging her right arm over his left shoulder. But when they settle she’s looking down at him and there are tears in his eyes.

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He pleads. He knows. In his heart he knows he wasn’t trustworthy but he’s a masochist and he needs to hear it from her. He needs to understand the depths of her isolation so he can understand her better.

She sighs, compassion glittering in her eyes. She does not regret her choices but she does wish things had been different.

 

“It wasn’t safe to do so.” She responds. Even now, she’s not explicitly blaming him and his heart wrenches. He nods even though he wants to argue with her, argue with himself that he wasn’t as absent and unavailable as he knows he was.

 

“Does anyone know?” He asks, reaching into the last three months to feel the vastness of her aloneness.

 

“Missandei.” She closes her eyes in a grimace. His face clenches in anger and regret. Of course. His mind flashes to images of their unique friendship, to their shared laughter and Valyrian banter. Beautiful Missandei was the cool water to Dany’s fire. He sends a prayer of gratitude to her spirit. He feels small comfort in the certainty that Missandei had been there for Dany and cared for her and he now understands Dany’s grief even further. Her demeanor on Dragonstone just days prior takes on new meaning. He feels overwhelming shame again.

 

Her next admission ignites fury.

“And Varys, I believe.” She states calmly and then shrugs. “But that doesn’t matter anymore.”

 

But he wants to linger there.

 

“Varys … how?”

 

She sighs, resigning herself to an explanation, tiredly. She’d rather talk about something else. About life.

 

“I did not confirm it.” She responds. “But he studied me.” She shudders remembering his gaze, trailing her always, especially the last few months. He was the only man on her council who tracked her like a woman - insidiously. “And then the poison. I saw that he has always had the means but it seems my pregnancies are what have offered him motivation.”

 

She speaks matter of factly without anger but he feels a fury burn inside him, heat licking at the edges of his restraint.

 

“Would he have told Tyrion?” He asks suddenly suspicious. She inhales, alarmed that she hadn’t yet considered it. He watches her face shadow and when he contemplates the probability that Tyrion knows and encouraged him to murder her anyway, the fury rises in him like an untamed beast. His legs twitch with unexpressed action. He would rise to his feet, stomp, and shout, raise his sword in a battle cry if not for his years of discipline and the petite form, perched atop his lap.

 

Instead he growls and clutches at her coat lapel with his right hand, bringing his head and burying it in her chest. He hears something like a howl come out of him and only distantly feels the gentle caress of her hand on the back of his head.

 

She holds him while he holds her. He is weeping, roughly, loudly as he clutches her. This display of rugged vulnerability would surprise her if not for all the other surprising things that have already transpired this very evening.

 

He is in her arms and yet he is drowning and cold. It’s as though he’s fallen into a frozen lake again, understanding the depths of his betrayal to her. The frigidity of the danger he has put her in, repulsing him. He almost killed her. The remorse shatters him. He is not angry at Varys or Tyrion, he is furious with himself. His mind is swimming with memories of Winterfell, of her form entering his quarters after the celebration feast. His memories are ale addled but he remembers her red dress, the softness of her form, her calm invitation to him, her welcoming kiss and her warm body pressed against his. The passion on their lips, his eagerness followed by his cold rejection. Even still, she’d begged him not to tell Sansa and he’d calmly, arrogantly dismissed her. And all the while, she’d known what she was protecting and she didn’t, couldn’t trust him to protect it with her. Why was he so capable of dismissing her fears, disavowing her motives and judging her actions? The lethality of his arrogance destroys him. He is still looping in self debasement when he hears her voice, familiar and melodic.

 

“ _Shh, iksā ȳgha. Shh iksā lenton._ _Iksā jorrāelatan”_ She repeats. It’s the mantra she’s repeated to herself the last few weeks, during her darkest nights. It’s the mantra she’s silently murmured to the pulsing life nestled in her belly. It is a soft and ancient prayer, one she shares with him now.

 

He has no idea what it means but it has reached a primordial part of his mind and he feels ineffably calmed by her crooning. He looks up at her, repentant and remorseful.

 

“Dany, please forgive me.” She looks down at him, quizzically.

 

“For telling Sansa. All of it - Varys, the poison, the treason, it was because of my betrayal. I’m so sorry. I put you both in danger.” He shakes his head in shame. Her eyes darken softly, she frowns and then composes herself as she studies him thoughtfully while she registers his outburst of grief as his wholehearted realization of what he’s done to her. She swallows, considers what it feels like to bear witness to his self-torture and his subsequent devotion, decides she appreciates his suffering to only a certain extent and nods.

 

“You are forgiven.” She whispers softly. And then her eyebrows arch in warning.

 

“Don’t betray me again.” The consequence is unspoken but understood. He nods, wipes the tears from his eyes and as his hand drops back to her lap, he realizes it’s resting on her thigh, right beside her middle which is still concealed behind the layers of fabrics and leather. She feels him fingering the fabrics and places her left hand on his right palm, guiding it to the center of her lap right to the ever so gentle swell below her belly button. He feels the firmness of the small round shape and marvels. She rests her forehead against his cheek and relaxes against him, while he relishes in this moment.

 

If she’s honest with herself, she can admit that she dared to dream of this. Of his acceptance

 

While another horrible realization hits him. He’s _still_ making this all about himself.

 

“Dany?” He asks, timidly now. His swift and vast range of emotions, impresses her. She’s never seen him peruse such terrains in such a short time.

 

“How are you feeling?” He asks.

 

She smiles then. His heart melts. She smiles and it’s a true smile. Grateful and earnest. Appreciative. Her smile is a gift all in of itself. The way it lights her face and makes her violet eyes sparkle, he understands why bards sing to make women smile.

 

She looks at him tenderly, smiling still. And then she briefly considers lying. She realizes she’s so used to performing strength, it’s reflexive to respond in such. Instead she chooses honesty.

 

“Tired.” her smile does not fade but he studies her face differently now. Indeed. She holds herself with such poise and grace but there is a deep weariness about her eyes.

 

She bends her head and touches her nose to his, rubbing them back and forth. He has missed this gentle tenderness of hers. He leans his forehead against hers and pulls her tighter against him. They rest there in mutual acknowledgement and appreciation, their bodies curled and warm against each other. Many words have been shared. There will be more to come. But for this moment, their breaths align, their hearts syncopated and strong, the thrum of love pulsing durably and they each feel a moment of peace from the torment of the last few months. Neither are alone in the world any longer. They have each other and the life between them and tonight they each laid down bricks to rebuild the citadel of their trust. Perhaps they can slowly rebuild this kingdom in the same way. Together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~ I rebuke the mad queen hypothesis. I wanted to explore Dany as both military strategist and distressed mother. Unapologetically. She knew exactly what she was doing and did it anyway. So what?
> 
> ~ I rebuke murder as a viable alternative to direct communication. I wanted to explore the complex realism of supporting a partner who makes morally questionable choices and loving them still. What if Jon's acceptance of her is not contingent on his approval of her actions? What if he plainly, morally disagrees with her violence but chooses to support her anyway? After all, Bess Truman supported Truman through Nagasaki and Hiroshima. Laura supported Dubya after the Iraqi war. Turns out people can be war mongers and still get love. 
> 
> ~ I rebuke Jon's incest hang up. Incest shmincest. His motives for emotional rejection were so opaque. It felt important to me for his rejection of her to be much more emotionally complex and existential than a simple case of ick, she's my auntie. 
> 
> ~ Regarding timing. I chose to make the Throne Room Scene the day after the burning of King's Landing because I considered how put together she looked as well as how organized the troops were and how long it would take Tyrion to walk through an entire city and unbury his siblings. It seemed like more than a day.
> 
> ~ According to Valyrian translator site: Iksā ȳgha. Iksā lenton. Iksā jorrāelatan = You are safe. You are home. You are loved
> 
> ~ Thanks for reading. This is my first fic and it feels terrifying to share it but writing it felt so godamn satisfying so I decided to be brave.


	2. Undress and Atonement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After all that talking, some Jonerys lovin' to the soundtrack of Truth.  
> Rating hereby changed to M

They are still curled in each other’s arms, she perched in his lap, resting in their shared stillness--when there is a knock on the door. She untangles herself from his arms, and stands as she murmurs an audible reply. The unsullied guarding her door are changing shifts. He stands as two guards and a handmaiden enter and he assents when she questions if he’s ready for her to clear their plates.

 

She walks them out, and in Valyrian gives orders he doesn’t understand. When they leave and the door is closed once more, he sees her demeanor has shifted. A certain tenseness has returned to her stance. He watches her stride across the room to a nearby table, her back to him. She begins to ready herself for bed, removing her crimson cape. He watches, realizing this is the first time he’s watched this ritual unfold without any assistance. After cleaning her teeth and face, her hands reach for her hair and he observes her thoughtfully as she nimbly begins to unclasp the crown of braids on her head.

 

“Will you be staying?” she murmurs casually over her shoulder.

 

He’s taken aback by the question. Another option hadn’t occurred to him. He clears his throat. She turns to meet his eyes, her face unreadable. Is she testing him?

 

“May I?” he asks, regarding her hopefully and cautiously. She visibly exhales and lowers her chin in a nod as her fingers continue in their task. He observes her for a few beats, not fooled by her pristine performance of aloof grace, before taking a few steps to cross the room towards her. He boldly steps directly into her personal space, purposely inhaling the scent of her hair. She stiffens for a moment when he stands behind her and sets his palm on her lower back. Her arms are still raised and she freezes her movements feeling the heat of him behind her.

 

They stand together back to front for a beat, he breathing her in, she acclimating to his proximity, to the nearness of his breath against her neck. He opens his mouth to say something but she bests him.

 

“We’ll need to be up early for the execution,” she states matter of factly. He’s unsure what to make of this. She turns her chin to glance at him over her shoulder, unsurprised to see his face transform into a scowl. Her right hand drops to her side as he takes a step back and she turns half her body to his.

 

“Dany …” He murmurs pleadingly and reaches his hand to clasp her fingers. She feels the warmth in his fingers alight in her palm and yet she still braces herself protectively.

 

“It’s necessary,” she defends against his perceived disapproval.

 

“I know it is.” He nods.

 

“I’d prefer to do it myself,” he continues. At this she turns to face him, genuinely surprised, a question in her eyes.

 

They gaze at each other - she warily considering this option; he, earnestly hoping he can pour trust back in through the eyes.

 

“May I … interrogate him first?” he asks.

 

It is her turn to scowl. She is skeptical. “Whatever for?”

 

He sighs unsure how candid to be.

 

“Tyrion is a traitor but he is also wealthy in secrets. I want to know the extent of his knowledge and of the damage he’s set in to motion before we no longer have opportunity to do so.” he explains. She takes note of his use of we and considers the implications of his words. She’s not sure how she feels about this merging of duties, this sharing of power. And yet, it’s what she’d asked for. Can she tamp her hubris to accept his gesture?

 

“Would you have me postpone his execution?” she asks dubiously.

 

He nods. “I would.” Her frown deepens.

 

“And when I’m done, I’ll remove his head myself, in front of the entirety of our forces.”

 

This gives her pause. First we, now our. She doesn’t understand why he wants this task.

 

“Burning is easier …” Cleaner, really. Afterward only a broom is needed, if that.

 

“Precisely,” he affirms. “Burning is what he expects. Let me be the one to land the blow.”

She begins to consider this option seriously. Ponders the implications of not having the weight of the task upon her. Of allowing Jon to shoulder it for her. Frankly, it feels nice. And yet she still has misgivings.

 

“He’s _my_ hand,” she counter-argues. _Was._ Her council and his treason are her responsibility.

 

“Aye – and it’s _my_ identity he’s exploited to try to dethrone you,” he affirms. Her brows furl with consternation and slight confusion.

 

“He knew what Sansa wanted,” Jon explains. “You gone; me in your stead.”

She’s slightly surprised that he’s so readily agreeing with her assessment of his sister’s treasonous dynamic and simultaneously annoyed that it’s gone this far for him to accept it.

 

“It’s important my men see the consequences of Northern dissent.” He locks eyes with her. At this she softens, her eyes widen in appreciative understanding. This is a gift to her, she sees. A treaty. An act of redemption. He wants to show her his support, publicly. She is grateful, despite her misgivings. She mulls the idea over. It’s not bad. It would unburden her and do precisely what he has explained – highlight to the Northerners, their Warden’s unwavering allegiance to the Queen.

 

“How much time do you want?” she asks him, not quite conceding.

 

“Within the week,” he confirms. “Before we return to Winterfell.” This last statement lands with surprising discomfort for them both. He feels immediate regret as her eyes widen. The plan had never been for him to stay. But that was before the revelations of this evening.

 

She attempts to exhale softly, to untangle the knot of disappointment that has twisted abruptly in her belly. Of course the Northern troops would be leaving shortly. They’d pledged themselves to claim King’s Landing. The task was done, Winter had arrived, they’d be anxious to return. Why wouldn’t he lead them home?

 

She collects herself quickly and swallows, imperiously before replying.

 

“Alright then.” She nods. “Before you leave.”

 

He feels his heart seize at her steely performance. She reaches back up to her braids, for something to do with her slightly trembling hands, begins to turn her body away again but he reaches up before she can clasp her locks securely, retrieving both of her hands into his, angling his body squarely in front of hers.

 

“Dany,” he states, voice soft and placating, his dark eyes furled slightly, imploringly.

 

“I didn’t mean … “ He’s not sure how to smooth this over, presses his lips together into an unconscious pout as he pauses. “May I stay?” he asks. She feels herself squirm under the determined earnestness of his gaze. She’s warring in her own mind about what she wants and how to respond. Mere hours ago, she’d confidently implored _together_. But here, now, in the dark of her chambers, her heart bared open, she feels tremors of insecurity.

 

“I want to stay in King’s Landing,” he declares huskily. She feels herself softening under the intensity of his gaze, the earnestness of his words. Still, she wants to be sure.

 

“With you.” He murmurs in a tone so low, it is almost a growl. She shivers, nearly ready to acquiesce into his arms and yet still she braces herself.

 

“What about your family?” she asks, the query pointed. His siblings are waiting for him in the North. Plotting away in the North.

 

He pauses, considering how to respond. His family continues to be a barrier between them. His sisters, in particular, will need to be talked to and dealt with. However, in this moment, it’s getting late and he sees in her that shadow of vulnerability he’s been so inept at caring for.

 

“ _You’re_ my family,” he purrs, the words laid down like a prayer. The gruffness in his voice a soft rumble above a whisper.

 

She closes her eyes in a long exhale. She feels her shoulders relax, hadn’t known she was holding herself so tense until she feels the tautness begin to unwind. Her eyes are still closed as she savors the echo of his words. _Family._ Is that what they are? Is that what they’re building? It feels true. But what does it even mean? She feels his hands brush her body gently as she meditates on this. First his hands release hers, then they graze the outside of her coat, up to her shoulders then caress up her face. She feels a finger dip along one cheek and realizes he’s plucked a solitary tear from her face. As she flutters her eyes open, she watches as he brings that tear tipped finger to his lips. The motion so unnervingly sensual she feels heat pool in her belly, feels herself squirm again. Her steel returns with a dash of mischief.

 

“That’s alright with you, now …?” she inquires. Then lands the jab: “Nephew.” The look on his face is enough to bring a smile to hers. He wrinkles his nose and shakes his head at her wagging eyes. But he’s feeling grounded enough to meet her with levity.

 

“Aye, just _please_ don’t call me that.” It’s a truthful request but he finds himself scowl-grinning at her. Their eyes meet with mirth. She feels the corners of her cheeks inch up and it feels like such a quotidian miracle that they can jest about this after all the strife its caused. She arches an eyebrow and pushes him a step further.

 

“Oh no? But what if I _really_ want to be called auntie?” For a brief moment a look of horror crosses his face until he registers the look of utterly mischievous glee on hers. She smirks at him, a merry taunt gleaming in her eyes. He exhales a laugh despite himself. Her smile, more than the jape, unravels his stoicism. That smile transforms everything. The way the turn of her mouth lights her face, the way her eyes crinkle bestowing warmth and joy. This is the Dany he knows, the one so few have seen. This wicked sense of humor is perhaps her best kept secret. He’d been astonished and delighted to discover the cleverness and filth of her wit. He appreciates it again for its power to diffuse this tension filled subject.

 

He brings his hands up to the lapel of her coat and still grinning pulls her closer, leaning his face into hers to growl flirtatiously.

 

“There are so many other names I’d prefer to call you.” He pulls her in for a kiss. She greets him, open, accepting, her doubts assuaged, for now.

 

Earlier in the day, there had been a spark of passion that had spurred his kisses in the throne room. Now, hours later, he feels a softer heat. His anger and dismay toward her have been shelved, in their stead he feels a solemn devotion, a yearning to love her slowly, tenderly. And that is what he does. Deliberately, he undresses her with all the caution of unwrapping a precious gift. The outer layer of black leather is surprisingly heavy in his hands as he helps her step out of it. Underneath that, a silk crimson tunic is tucked into her leather breeches, and he pauses to appreciate the military simplicity of her underclothes. There is something about her sans skirt that ignites his desire. Her dresses have always been practical as they are ornate, designed to accentuate her curves as well as to protect her while riding. Yet they are so decidedly feminine. They hide some of her greatest power. Those tunic clad legs so bold in where they stride and how they ride. Only after he’d ridden Rhaegal had he come to understand how much strength and skill is required of her to ride Drogon as gracefully as she does. The respect he has for those legs furthers his arousal. He feels himself begin to strain against the thin linen. When she is clad only in tunic and breeches, uncorseted, he is reminded of this power of hers, of her warrior wildness. Of her freedom. It is this quality to which he finds himself particularly attracted.

 

He pauses to observe the swell of her breasts underneath the silk, her nipples already taut if not from the chill, from anticipation. She is breathing rapidly though holding her own under the intensity of his gaze. The tunic is pressed into pants that are high waisted and he notices the wisdom in the choice of the cut. She is nothing if not highly strategic. He returns to her gaze and without breaking eye contact, reaches down to her hip, slowly tucking his fingers into the hem of her leather pants, she inhales raggedly as his fingers skim the skin under the band as he pulls the fabric free. He brings both his hands underneath the shirt feeling the heat of her. Always. She always runs hot. He pauses, both hands resting around her bare waist and he sees her lids go heavy before he lifts the red tunic up, she cooperates lifting her arms over her head. When her arms descend and she stands before him, clad only in the breeches, he pauses. It is then that he begins to study the differences, subtle but poignant. It’s been a moon since he’s seen her bare. Since the last time he had memorized her topography. She’s thinner he sees. Her clavicles more prominent, her shoulders bonier. The outline of her sternum, evident with her inhales. And perhaps even more obvious because of her shrunken frame, her breasts are unmistakably fuller, heavier, more assertive. The pink of her nipples a shade darker.

 

He is as awed by her fullness as he is slightly concerned about her gauntness. His eyes linger in wonder at all of her contours. He steps forward, brings one hand to her lower back and trails his fingertips up from her hip to caress the underside of one breast, runs a thumb over it as he feels the weight of it in his hand and pauses to marvel at its fullness as he feels her exhale and shift on her feet. When he looks up, she is biting her lip, looking away, not meeting his eye and he sees an unnamed vulnerability, a glazed look of discomfort evident on her face. It is not what he was hoping to see.

 

“ _Let them see you have a woman’s body now.”_

 

She is adrift and detached, a habit of being so evaluated. His eyebrows furl inquisitively. His heart heaves with concern. He pulls his hand away and her eyes snap back to his.

 

“Dany?” his voice is so tender. She softens. His eyes search hers. She blinks at him guilelessly.

 

“Where’d you go?” She pulls herself back into the present, wills herself to accept his gaze. To open. To not clench or disappear under perceived assessment. His dark eyes are warm, not calculating. She sees his tenderness, his concern, his caution. She exhales to relax into him.

 

He sees her resolve shift and takes a step back to give her space. She inhales conviction. She _is_ a woman now. Not a child. And his gaze is adoring, not evaluative. She takes a step forward.

 

“I’m right here,” she affirms and reaches up to his face with one hand, while returning his palm to her breast with the other, encouraging him to continue.

 

He waits a beat to confirm her willingness, allows the heat from her body to move through his hand, feels the twitch of his fingers reflexively tighten around the globe of her flesh, sees her chin lift as she exhales a slight moan under the pressure of his touch and then he leans in to taste her mouth.

 

Their bodies begin to communicate in unison. He hears her moan as his arms caress her bare back. She feels a welcome tenderness in her sore breasts as he presses her close to his chest. Her nerves are alive and she revels in the heightened sensation. There is only his linen tunic between them now and soon her fingers push between them to fumble at his hem. He stills her hands with his own, sees her frustration and then smiles, touching her chin with his fingertips. For a moment he considers postponing and then he thinks better of it, lifting the tunic over his head before kissing her deeply again. He feels himself begin to harden as she reaches deep into his mouth with her tongue. He laces his fingers through her hair, grasping her locks with a tender possessiveness. Skin to skin, they both feel the racing of their respective hearts beating against and with each other. When he hears another moan, he pulls away yet again. This time she hisses frustrated and he nearly laughs, appreciating her regal indignation. He has no intention of refusing her but he wants to adore her, not yet ravish her, so he tenaciously leads her by the hand over to the bed, despite the slight scowl on her face.

 

She is standing at the foot of the bed, impatiently, hungrily, pulling him in, expecting to fall back onto the mattress and he holds her back, bringing both of his hands to her face.

 

“ _Paez,”_ he murmurs. Her eyes widen, impressed and acquiescing.

 

He smiles softly. Leans in to nuzzle her neck and travels behind her ear with his tongue. Feels the way she shudders and softens under his lips as he lifts her hair, now loose, inhaling the rose and pheromone musk that is only hers. The backs of her legs are pressed against the frame of the bed and she is pressing her hips into his. He feels the familiar angles and contours, the soft firmness of her belly against his own and pulls back softly, once more. The warm pressure of her against his hardness requires distance if he is going to continue disciplined with his plan. His fingertips graze her back skimming her shoulder blades and down her waist until they find the hem of her pants again. He unfastens the buttons expertly and then gracefully lowers himself to peel them off of her. She scoots up to sit on the bed frame when the pants reach her knees, blocked by the boots. She watches him from her perch as he kneels, unlacing each boot and removing them purposefully before finally peeling away the leather pants. She nimbly returns to her feet, her pelvis nearly eye level to him, when he reaches up his hand to stroke the inside of her right thigh. The only garment between him and her nakedness, a final layer of silk underclothes, already damp. He cups her over the silk and watches her from below as her eyes close with a tremble before he tugs at the thin fabric, sliding it down to her ankles. It is then that he pauses, in wonder. There it is. Her belly. The curve subtle but unmistakable. He sits back on his haunches, knees digging into the floor, his eyes imbibing the elusive miracle before him. He notices that her hip bones are more prominent, her thighs leaner, it is no wonder she has been able to hide this secret. But here naked before him, it is as plain and wondrous as sunrise. Just above her mons and some fingerbreadths below her belly button, there is the gentle swell of his child nestled inside of her. He smiles.

 

She tries to steady her breath as she watches him, on his knees and leaned back as he gazes at her belly like he’s making eye contact with the child within. It would make her bashful if she were not so enchanted by his humble wonder. His eyelashes cast shadows and his pert mouth is slightly parted, his jaw relaxed. He looks hardly more than a boy and she wonders that of all the knees that have ever been bent to her, this look is one she’s never known. Is this what it feels like to be prayed to? She remembers the way Drogo adored her pregnant body the way he would leer and lust at her swelling belly and claim her more and more possessively the bigger she grew. She appreciated it at the time. Was proud to be able to please him. She knew nothing different. But this time, this gaze, this man, _is_ different. She has known deference but the way he is looking at her – it is something more, it is reverential. She feels her heart press against the confines of her ribs. Feels her body response in pulses and quivers. Feels the heat gather low in her hips, like a summer storm, moist and electric.

 

He allows himself the time to re-memorize her, inch by inch, until he finally raises his eyes to meet hers. He gasps at the sight. In the candlelight, her face is flushed and glowing, her silver hair backlit and free, the curls loose and awry, tumbling over her shoulders. She is magnificent. And as he looks up at her, he inhales. He can smell her redolence from here, that exquisite scent wafting to him, salty and heady, like a sweet ocean breeze. Still making eye contact, he leans in before ducking his head to her knee, nuzzling her legs apart with his head and pausing just inside her right knee cap to linger a kiss on her skin while inhaling deeply. He feels her steady herself, notices the way she presses her heels into the stone as her inhales increase and he slowly travels, sniffing her aroma audibly, so wolf like while trailing kisses all the way up the inside of her thigh, until he’s paused just beside and below her fragrant folds. He takes a moment to pause, to collect himself and settle his most rabid of instincts before he buries his nose in her folds and growls hungrily. Before he tastes her, he wants to revel in her new scent, memorize it anew. All the same notes are there and something huskier, headier, more fecund.

 

She grips the bed frame and moans as he growls and sniffs with a feral thirst. The anticipation itself has her curling her toes. She restrains herself from tilting her pelvis into his face.

 

Finally, _finally_ , he opens his mouth and excruciatingly slowly, begins to lick, allowing her flavor to linger on his tongue like a first sip of wine before he acquiesces to her girations, lapping her up, thirsty for the river she is offering up to him. She croons softly, willing herself to remain aware and in control but soon her mind begins to blur, her body tremulous and limpid and her eyes begin to close, to roll backward. She does not notice when her knees begin to buckle, when he lifts one arm to hold her steady or when she finally lays back on the bed, gripping his head between her thighs tightly. She is only vaguely aware of his animalistic groans and of her hands gripped tightly in his curls as he plays her body like a harp, her moans as musical as any song.

 

“Jon, _please,”_ she pleads. This tone is different. She is trembling, an orgasm later, body breathless and aching for him, his beard is slick and pungent, his fingers sticky and glazed, her rosy body trembling beneath him and he is painfully throbbing yet she has tried and failed to guide him inside her. Has demanded and commanded, and he’s resisted. He has dug into the reservoirs of his discipline, so determined to set the pace of his adoration.

 

He hovers above her, cradling her face, gazing into her eyes, poised tenderly. When he finally enters her, it is not before he’s hovered his mouth over her belly, murmured prayers of gratitude and protection into the hidden ocean of her womb where their child swims protected. It is not before he has pressed his forehead to hers, gripped her eyes with his own, laced his fingers through hers and whispered, “I love you.” It is not before he has taken her nipples into his mouth only to feel the sweetened hint of warm milk in his mouth. It is not before she is so open, so flushed, so languid and so a part of him already, that when he enters her he’s not sure if he ever truly left--that is how at home he feels.

 

* * *

 

 They are rocking together in unison, practiced and replete in their shared rhythm. The oscillations of their tethered limbs, a concomitant parley, part waltz part combat.

 

“Dany.” He is chanting softly, in between thrusts, repeating her name like a mantra, like a prayer.

 

Her thighs are gripping his forcefully, her hands clasped behind his neck. She brings her lips to his ear, catches the bottom of his lobe between her teeth, hears him growl when she bites down. She has allowed him to take her slowly for hours, and now, she is feeling much more urgent, demanding, carnal.

 

“Aegon,” she moans. His response is both delayed and immediate. His hips slow in their downward motion, while the hair on his back stands on end. He slowly pulls back, but not out completely, raising his eyes to meet hers. She instinctively lifts her hips to meet his, tightens the grip of her thighs and lifts her chin to meet his eyes. When she sees his face, for a moment she thinks she’s overstepped.

 

“Is that alright?” she whispers cautiously, feeling the slow ache of his stalled movements inside her.

 

His look of consternation. And then his jaw flexes and his eyes darken. His lips part as he twitches inside of her.

 

“Say it again,” he snarls, obsidian gaze not leaving hers. He dives inside her fully once more as if punctuating his command. She feels a spark of a smile reach her lips.

 

“Aegon,” she says it louder, with a lilt of pride and defiance, the last syllable a savored groan.

 

“Hmmm,” he murmurs, hitching her knee a little higher and adjusting his angle. He slides in slowly, but with force. He resumes a steady rhythm, with control and precision--she hears the gasps being forced out of her.

 

“Aegon,” she says again, this time pitched just below a wail. This is enough for him. His speed increases.

 

His rhythm is still disciplined but the precision is beginning to waver as he arrives ever closer to release. She has wrapped her ankles around his calves, guiding his angle with her hips. She waits, calculating until he’s close before she speaks again.

 

“Be my King,” she half breathes half moans. The wild and shadowed lust in his eyes sharpens into focus. His thrusting slows again as he pauses to look at her. He’s so deep inside her, so close, returning to cognition is challenging.

 

“Will you be my Dragon King?” she murmurs again, expertly tilting her pelvis up as she slides her ankles lower on his calves, pinning him to her at a precisely maddening angle.

 

His breathing is ragged, he’s panting above her and he shakes his head in such a canine gesture, to try to clear his mind. He’s utterly and agonizingly trapped in a precarious delirium caught between the tenuous exquisiteness of sensation, of being buried to the hilt, of teetering on the precipice of completion. And then there’s these words she’s murmuring, asking, tamping at the fire coming to consume them.

 

“I’ll be whatever you want me to be,” he snarls, interring  himself trenchantly as he reaches down to catch her left thigh beneath her knee to hitch it higher. He means it. At this fulcrum point, he’s past reason, barely within the range of cognition. He descends on her throat just below her ear, taking a piece of skin between his teeth, reveling in the cry of pleasure laced pain it elicits.

 

And then she stills, much to his confusion and chagrin. He feels her arms lift his face to hers, her fingers caressing the back of his neck, notices the grip of her thighs go slightly lax. Feels only a reassuring squeeze of her inner muscles as she nudges his chest away from hers so she can look him square in the eye.

 

“I want you to help me rule,” her voice is clear as a bell, sober. Her shrewd eyes are aglow like a hearth fire, warm and secure. There is not a hint of the impassioned delirium he feels in his own mind. He is straining to concentrate despite his body’s belabored insistence otherwise.

 

“Dany …” he murmurs, trying to placate. There is a hint of desperation tinged in his voice. His balls are throbbing,  precariously turgid. He’s ready to tell her whatever she wants to hear, so she will let him take her to blissful oblivion with him.

 

“Be my King ...” her voice is equal parts whisper, equal parts command, “help me.” It is both moan and plea, and he shudders at the way her exhaled voice travels electricity through his body, bringing him that much closer even without the help of friction. Inside her, his cock twitches on its own. He is still hovering.

 

In a deep recess of his mind, there is mild awareness of some subtle danger, that he’s too far beyond reason to deny her anything. That she knows exactly what she’s doing, is doing it on purpose.

 

“Aye” He nods his head and hungrily plunges toward her mouth, dipping his tongue inside. She indulges him for a few beats and then pulls back yet again. Her eyes are imploring, demanding, insistent. One of her hands is on his ass, stilling his hips. He feels the distant thunder of frustration sober him ever so slightly. He begins to pull out slowly, he sees her eyes widen in longing and regret as he inches out, almost completely, leaving just the kiss of his tip, languid at her entrance. He watches her eyebrows furl in concerned consternation, appreciates the hapless helplessness on her face for just a glimmer before he plunges deeply.

 

Her cry is reward in and of itself. It is a deep bellied growl, she is gasping in astonished pleasure. Her eyes abrim and watering with the intensity.

 

“You want a king?” He growls antagonistically, grinding deeper, matching each subsequent thrust with the depth and force of the last. Her pupils scream open and each moan is now being forced out of her unbidden, a consequence of her lungs being emptied from the inside out.

 

“You want a king?” he repeats, this growl more menacing than the last, demanding. Her eyes are wild, her lips parted in a grimace of pleasure as she pants.

 

“Yes.” She repeats after each thrust. “Yes.” The rhythm is fierce and relentless. Her head is bobbing closer and closer to the approaching headboard. He scoops a hand under the back of her neck, protecting it.

 

She’s close, he can feel it. Her breath is haggard, her thighs gripping powerfully, her fingernails digging into his back, she’s lifted her mouth to his shoulder, is biting down, her groans morphing into primal grunts, he can feel her torrid walls clenching, hears the sound of her bearing down around him.

 

And then he slows wickedly, agonizingly and pulls his head and shoulders away. Her head falls back, her mouth agape and panting, a foggy wildness in her eyes, clouded in confusion searching his for answers.

 

He sees perspiration from his face drip down on to hers.

 

“Alright then, my queen.” He bucks softly, teasing her with a tender thrust. Her eyes widen and begin to focus, studying him.

 

“No council meetings in our bed.” He declares this as sternly and regally as he can muster. “I command it.”

 

Her eyebrows shift bemusedly and freeze. She looks stunned. Doe eyed. Thoroughly chastened.

 

And then her face shatters open into a guffaw. Understanding and appreciation rippling through her. She’s met her match. The quality of her laughter is so raucous, so genuine, so vehemently mirthful, that for a moment he is simply captivated by the immensity of her beauty. He watches the way she throws her head back, spontaneous and wild, the way her eyes nearly disappear in their own half moons, the way her laugh echoes through the room, the way the force of her delight reverberates through her body, even now he can feel her laughter in the tip of his cock as her belly vibrates with the hum of her joy. He finds himself grinning, gazing down at her, believing this sight is perhaps more satisfyingly beautiful for its rarity than any orgasm he’s elicited from her.

 

Her laughter rumbles through her and eventually her eyes open, her mouth still smiling widely. From this angle, he is certain, the gods themselves lined up her teeth, so perfectly radiant and even they are. This mouth was built for smiling. He vows to search for more ways to make her this happy.

 

Eventually she smirks, playful and mischievous. Gazing up at him, with pride and desire. She lifts her chin slightly and he feels her double tap his right ass cheek with her palm, a subtle but definite order.

 

He rolls them over obligingly, welcoming her on top.

 

“As you command.” She smiles, regally down at him. “My King.” And then she bites her lower lip in an alarmingly devilish way, her violet eyes aglitter with a friendly lightning and his face darkens with shameless anticipation.

 _“Ñuha dārys”_ She smiles down at him, teeth bared. If he didn’t trust her he’d be terrified of the wicked way she’s grinning at him imperiously and taking control with her hips. For a half moment he thinks about Drogon. About the splendor and power of him and of the way he submits so eagerly to her, the way she rides him with such skillful aplomb, how her tiny frame embraces the enormous wild heat of that animal and he gratefully succumbs to her. Aegon can relate.

 

His hands grip her hips, instinctively, his own hips snapping to the rhythm she sets with practiced precision. His eyes roam up to hers and then travel down her body. In the glow of the candle light, he pauses over her breasts again, and lifts a hand to brush her taught nipples once more. She moans at his caress and he marvels again at their weight in his palm. He brings it down, cups her belly as she bucks and then brings his thumb down to press a gift of friction against her slick clitoris. She leans forward as she cries out, bracing her arms on his shoulders as their bodies boldly gallop forward together. He looks up at her and revels in her unrestrained cries, in the snarl of her panting mouth, in the way she begins to tremble and lose control under his touch. Then, she reaches down and tugs his hand back into hers, slowing her gait with measured exhales. She smiles at him, catching her breath and braids her fingers through his, she lifts his arms above his head, presses her palms against his as she tilts her pelvis and leans down, bracing herself against his upturned hands, her lips moist and parted reaching down to greet his mouth with hers.

 

He feels the curved softness of her torso move down atop his and he welcomes the weight of her, invites the plunge of her tongue and the flavor of her exhale into his mouth. Breathes her in and smiles as the clutch of their gripped fingers tightens simultaneously, their sweltering palms pressed together, knuckles beginning to sting. She finally breaks their kiss away, for the sake of a proper breath, and pulls her face back slightly to bring him into focus. The corner of his lips are parted upward, his features glowing with the mist of his perspiration and flushed with exertion. His pupils are blown so wide, they could be a window into the night sky. She feels herself open, every portal matching the strain of his pupils. She feels herself subsumed by a tsunami of devotion and gratitude. This is where they find themselves, faces mirrored in delirious smiles, voices merging, urging, chanting, together at the fulcrum point of surrender and dissolution. This fusion of limbs and fluids. This union of salt and smoke. This battle of wills and surrender of spirit, this playtime and bartering of pleasure. She hears herself grunting, straining, admires her own exertion, her willingness to strive forcefully for achievement. She surrenders her mind to this dance of embodied trust. Allows herself to be all flesh and instinct and fire. Her primality shatters his composure. He allows himself to descend again back into that place beyond language, welcomes the way she steers the helm of his ship, the way their bodies know how to dance, how to sing together and he struggles to keep his eyes locked with hers even as he feels himself approaching the precipice of starfall and oblivion where all he hears is the harmony of their moans, crescendoing together like an orchestra into a song of ice and fire.

 

* * *

 

 

They are curled up, in a boneless embrace, limbs slick with combined moisture, warm and aglow in satiated reverie, the last of the candles flickering down to their bare wicks. Her head is on his chest, resting on his heart, adrift and grounded by the steady drumbeat beneath her cheek. His fingers absently caressing her arm where it lays. He feels a semblance of peace and quietude. It is such a foreign and welcome sensation. They are both utterly exhausted hovering just this side of dreamtime. She allows herself to rest in this ephemeral respite of comfort and ease, allows her body to sink into a sensation of warmth and safety. For a while, he believes she may have ceded into sleep, her breaths are so slow and even, her warm body cradled in his arms. He is on the brink of slumber himself. She submerges into that place of stolid security and grounds herself in a moment of courage to bring her truth forward. And then she moves cautiously, lifts a hand to the bottom of his chin, curling her fingers into the tendrils of his beard, feels the roughness of his hair and exhales. He smiles dreamily at the familiarity it brings and curves his chin to nuzzle against her head.

 

“It’s a girl.” She murmurs and waits with baited valor for several breaths while he slowly reaches into a space of cognition to assimilate this soft terse pearl of truth.

 

She feels his arms tighten slightly around her deepening their hug, appreciates the security of his weight. His head shifts toward her again. She squeezes her eyes, feeling the vestiges of that old and persistent fear. Then she lifts her head shyly, meeting his eyes expectantly in the near darkness. She doesn’t realize that while she’s been waiting, her breaths have tightened in anticipation and subtle defensiveness. He exhales a smile.

 

“A girl.” He breathes, trying out the word, forming the wondrous idea in his mind now swimming with abstract images, imagined and foreseen. A small silver head, pattering feet, a high pitched giggle. He holds her closer, quietly, brings his forehead to meet hers and breathes contentedly closing his eyes. She lifts her head back, seeing his closed eyes and lowers her head. She cowers slightly in his arms, buries her head in the crook of his armpit, inhaling his heady musk, swallowing against the insecurities rising.

 

“Is that alright?” She murmurs, her voice shakier, pitched higher than she would have liked. He notices the shift and leans down, encouraging her eyes back up to meet his. Inquisitive concern etched in his brow.

 

They pause in that proximal darkness, he searching hers for the origins of her anxiety, she searching his for approval. His silence consumes her. Inflames the embers of her terror. She feels her belly twist and tighten.

 

“Will she be enough?” She asks her voice so laced with uncertainty and fear, it startles him. He moves to his side, propping himself up on his elbow so he can see her better.

 

“Dany.” He murmurs tenderly, observing a never before seen panic in her shimmering eyes.

 

“Of course.” He greets her eyes with sincerity. His mouth curling into a small but genuine smile. His heart is already aglow with this new knowledge. He is grateful.

But her eyes are agape with a fear he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know this is the deepest wound she has. Of chronic disregard. Of being forever undeserving. Born to be axillary as an unwanted girl, of striving always and still being perpetually unworthy.

 

She swallows, unconvinced. Tendrils of distress threaten to trellis up her body, she tries to steady her breath, suppress the panic that is rising. It feels too familiar and out of place, unwelcome here in this bed where she’s felt nothing but acceptance. And yet this is it, it is here, the monster of fear inside of her, despite his assurance, despite his smile, this is the precise terror and agony that has driven her forward against all reason, the one that pushed her out of Winterfell prematurely, the one that took command atop that tower spire and drove her to annihilate the city. And it’s not been sated, it’s growing, this fire of desperation within her.

 

But here in the dark, there is no dragon beneath her to direct this energy, to conduct it toward action. Nor is there a place to hide. She is naked in all ways brimming with protective desperation for the life growing inside of her.

 

He continues to gaze upon her, concerned and bemused. He feels a gladness. Relief. All of this news is so recent and the thought of a girl child only brings him a subtle sated joy. And yet the octave of her discomfort begins to heighten. Her relaxed limbs begin to tense, her body stiffens in his arms and she squirms slightly. She’s not sure what she expected from him, but this terseness isn’t it. Her breathing deepens.

 

He brings a hand up to her face. This is how he has tried to calm her in the past, to ground her in the present, to look her eye to eye and assure her.

 

“Dany, she’s already more than enough.” Her brows furl, she feels ready to bolt out of this bed but wills herself to focus on his face, to imbibe his words.

 

“She’s a miracle. She’s ours.” His sincerity reaches her. Soothes the fevered itch of desperation. Quenches the fire of panic. Balms the itchy scars of heartache. She exhales long and slow, allowing his truth to settle inside of her. A lifetime of pain cannot be healed in this moment but she allows the seeds of healing to take root. Encourages herself to believe him. His earnestness is so palatable. Because what is the alternative? She does not want to feed the terror. She wants him to be right. And she wants it to be true. She wants to be enough. To be worthy. She needs that for her daughter. To be born into a world that welcomes her. For her to exist without being threatened or diminished. To be accepted as a woman, as valuable in her own right. To be worthy of love simply for existing. He’s right. She _is_ a miracle.

 

Dany smiles gratefully. She leans in, parting her mouth, kissing him. He pulls her in, settling down onto his back again, stretching out contentedly, bringing his other arm under his head.

 

“Although, I always thought that witch was a liar.” He mutters, voice gruff with a false deadpan and something else. A lilt of smugness. She can hear the smirk in his tone. She snorts despite herself, appreciating his purposeful levity, cuddles up in his arms again, relaxing. And then she remembers Mirri’s spiteful face, her scowl, her accent, the vindictive hate in her dark eyes.

 

_“… When your womb quickens again, and you bear a living child …”_

She shudders at the echo of that curse reverberating through her mind. She’s never had reason to doubt its veracity. Until now. And yet the belief in her own brokenness has rooted so deeply into her sense of self, it’s not so easy to simply disbelieve. She brings a hand to her belly protectively. It is still too early to feel movements. Maybe she never will. She feels the fear reaching towards her again and wills herself to remember the dream she had in Winterfell. Conjures herself back to that soft head of silver curls, the jiggle of those round baby cheeks bobbing closer with each teeter of a step, swaying precariously on bare chubby feet, tiny arms stretched out steadying and reaching toward her. That trill voice calling out so melodic. _“Muña”_.

 

It had been real. As real as anything else she’s experienced. She had heard the whisper of the breeze blowing through her child’s hair. Had smelled the powdered baby scent of her as she neared. Had seen the shine of two bottom teeth, and the glimmer of a drool drop on her lower lip, so rosy and pert. Had felt herself swell with mother’s pride as she recognized the glint of joyful determination in her babe’s grey violent eyes. So determined to learn. Determined to walk forward.

 

_If I look back I am lost._

 

She sighs assuring herself she _will_ meet her. Dares herself to believe it. Despite the curse. Despite the fact that she’d seen Rhaego just as clearly and never held him to her breast. She holds despair at bay. Grips her resolve like a dragon spike. Her dreams do come true. Her pragmatism takes over.

 

“Perhaps.” She responds. He frowns, untucking his arm and bringing it back to her shoulder, turning to gaze at her once more. She feels interrogated and shifts away sitting up, keeping her bare back to him.

 

“Dany …” He reaches out to caress her back tenderly. “What are you afraid of?” His palm rests on her lower spine, the pressure both firm and gentle.

 

She feels herself tremble under the directness of that question. The precipice is high, the ocean of fear vast. Where to even begin? She’s held this secret in so long, only dared to look, dared to acknowledge it in hiding. There has only ever been danger, war, enemies, threats. There has only been survival. She has hardly had opportunity to think ahead, to really consider the after. All of this, the throne, the crown, the seven kingdoms, it has been so abstract and now finally it is tangible, it is here. She has it all and even more, she has _this_ , this nascent life budding inside and yet the fear, the emptiness persists. For the possibility of even more loss, remains.

 

Her head drops, she feels the wet heat of tears, on her cheeks. The grief of so much loss, old and recent spilling out. She hears him come to his elbows behind her. The pressure of his hand on her lower back unwavering. She swallows, biting back nausea and fatigue.

 

“Death.” She admits, plainly. “Hers more than my own.” _Abandonment. Betrayal._

He sighs somberly, lingering just behind her, the weight of her apprehension hanging heavy over him, also. He knows as well as she, neither of their mothers survived this passage.

 

“And the price of survival.” She continues, bravely, swallowing back a whimper.

_Only death pays for life._

 

At this he slings his left leg behind her and in one motion, pulls her back to lean into him to rest her back against his chest between his thighs. He wraps his arms around her, squeezes her between his knees, curling his body around her lovingly, protectively. She softens, allows her head to fall back on his chest, turns her head to nuzzle under his chin into the crook of his neck, reaches her right arm up to hold his face against her. He reaches down between their legs and cups the small swell at the base of her belly, holding it with a firm tenderness.

 

“Whatever the future holds, we will do this together.” He assures her. He is not a poet or a romantic. He is a soldier and the battlefield of birthing is perhaps the only war he can’t truly join her in or fight for her. He will not espouse promises he can’t keep. He can’t guarantee her life safety or pretend he can protect her from the perils of motherhood but he can guarantee his presence and his devotion throughout. She allows herself to be held, allows his body, his words to salve the scorch of her pain. Welcomes his devotion. Surrenders herself to a semblance of trust.

 

“We will love her, together.” He affirms. This is the truth he knows.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all THANK YOU to all who read and commented. I fully intended the fic to be a one-shot but was so inspired by the response, that I was compelled to imagine what might come next. 
> 
> “Ñuha dārys” = My King  
> “Muña” = Mother  
> “Paez” = Slowly
> 
> “And the reason why she makes the decision is a lifetime of pain, hurt, misery and disappointment and heartache and that she is never enough. Never enough for love. Never enough to get this throne she’s orchestrated her entire life toward.” ~ Emilia Clarke
> 
> Special thanks to frombluetored and my old college roomie, Anders, for editing & teaching me new literary terms like “purple prose.”
> 
> Please do comment with questions/concerns/suggestions and ideas for what you'd like to see next.
> 
> Personally, I'd like to see these two get out of their feelings/bedroom and working together to clean up KL.


	3. Dreams of Discord & Reconciliation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after all that throne room redemption and Jonerys lovin'.  
> Some gritty dreams and some nitty gritty co-ruling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Depiction of non-consensual sex. Relevant to plot but nonetheless, trigger/avoidance warning.

Their first day begins and ends arduously. Altogether too soon, he awakens to a sharp knocking, the repeated hammering painfully jarring in his skull. The knock persists and he turns away from it and toward her warm body, opening his eyes reluctantly, surprised to see Dany unresponsive to the abrasive sound.

 

When he opens the door, clad in nothing but his breeches the dour look on Greyworm’s face is so scathing he might as well have been wielding a dagger.

 

“Where is the Queen?” Greyworm asks accusingly, stepping into the room aggressively, as though he believes Jon capable of killing her and hiding her dead body behind him. Still Dany sleeps and she looks so serenely cherubic, curled under the covers, silver locks sprawled over her bare shoulders, it pains Jon to wake her. He moves to do so, tenderly.

 

* * *

 

_She is sitting in front of a fire, stirring a bowl in her lap, a concoction of fragrant herbs and thick blood mixing together potently, behind her she hears the sound of steel on whetstone but doesn’t turn, so focused she is on the task at hand. The flames flicker deeper red and then sparkle an electric blue, the heat increasing and eventually the sound of steel dims distantly. She looks down to the bowl and is about to offer the concoction to the fire when she feels a pair of legs reach around her thighs and a hot voice whispers at her neck. She sighs simultaneously enjoying his touch and resenting his interruption. She leans back and comments “brother, you should know better than interrupt an offering to Rhll’or” His hands slip from around her waist and into her lap, sliding underneath her skirts and in between her legs. She sighs in concomitant pleasure and annoyance, not wholeheartedly deterring nor encouraging him. His fingers dip inside her torrid wet core and she quivers slightly. When he pulls out, his fingers are painted crimson with moonblood that glimmers in the fire light. He reaches his fingers to his lips and she hears him slurp with lascivious contentment. “Hmm.” He hums savoring her flavor as he reaches back down for a second go. “Marry me, Sheira.” She hears his voice and only now stills his traveling palm with her own. She sighs in dismay, eyes focused on the flames again as she empties the bowl into the hearth. The images before her begin to flicker, swaying like a distant mirage before slowly coming into focus._

_Now, she is in the water gardens, the late afternoon air warm and dry but for the soft breeze ruffling the silk of her dress, the sound of a distant lute and a closer harp, waft together on the breeze like rose and jasmine. She is watching the children play and laugh, their voices melodic and endearing. Among the varied group, a set of twin faced tots catches her eye, their bare chested skin an identical caramelized gold. They tussle together splashing and laughing each met perfectly by the other’s size. With sudden alacrity the fair haired sprog dunks the darker aggressively and she watches baited as the tiny bronzed limbs flail under the pressure of their white haired counterpart. Altogether too much time passes until the dark head finally rises to the surface spluttering and gasping for air, eyes flashing an angry purple and turning up to her for assurance._

_She waves from the balcony and nods reassuringly. She hears a deep chuckle as bronzed muscled arms encircle her waist pulling her into a sensual and familiar embrace. She feels her body respond with a well acquainted arousal, her attention shifts to the aroma of clean masculinity around her, the feel of a bare face caressing her neck._

_Her husband murmurs into her ear, the accent succinct and inviting._

_“Mother of dragons. Let the children be free.” The voice murmurs. She turns to greet him, circling her hands around his neck, caressing the chestnut hair between her fingers and meeting his dark Dornish eyes with her own. She smiles, leaning up for a kiss. As their mouths meld, the pillars around them sprout thick limbs and green leaves, the balcony becoming a forest grove around them. He pulls her hands from around his neck, clasping them in his broad brown palms._  
  
  
_She looks down to see a cream silk rope looping around their wrists, a septon’s chant reverberating around them, while her eyes remain locked on their intertwined hands “Father, smith, warrior …” With every word, the ropes around her wrist tighten painfully, “Mother, maiden, crone …” Chafing the tender skin “…stranger …” her fingers tingle with the cold of suppressed circulation and yet her wrists burn. She tears her eyes up frantically. Smiling lilac eyes greet hers, set into a smooth face framed with short silver locks. She exhales rapidly, leaning in while simultaneously wanting to step away, momentarily forgetting the burning of her hands. The monotony of the septon’s voice repeats and drums at her mind like the sharp knock of the door. “I am hers and she is mine.” She listens to their voices repeating in unison as the rope digs so tight she’s sure it will draw blood. Her eyes are locked on her brother’s face, so pure and full of love and yet as the wind moves through the trees she feels a panic, a disarray. “From this day until the end of my days.” The rustle of leaves distracts her. A distant knocking pulls at her attention. She tears her eyes to the left, locking eyes with the three eyed raven just before a searing pain shoots through her wrists and she gasps trying to wrench her hands free, but she is indubitably tied to another and she looks down in agonized horror as the wrought iron shackles, rusted and sharp, rip open her wrists, blood draining down her hands dripping from her fingertips, a matching stream of blood pulsing from between her thighs, joining currents and lapped up by the earth below. She looks up at her co-prisoner, and …_

* * *

 

Dark, loving eyes greet her as she blinks several times gaze unfocused, her head throbbing. His familiar yet discordant face startles her and she pulls herself away before registering a new reality and reaches up to caress his cheek. He glances to his left shyly as she tries to pull him in to a kiss motioning to the figure standing in the room. It is only then that she fully realizes she’s back in their bed, the room aglow with morning and her military commander is waiting expectantly. She shakes her head to rinse away the crown of ache and props herself up, one hand to her pulsing temple, one to the coverlet, a bare breast peeking out regardless, spine straightening ready to do business. Only Jon finds himself bashful.

 

 _“Torgo Nudho”_ She addresses him formally.  
  
Daenerys manages to perform pristine regality despite being unclothed and disheveled. Greyworm’s face remains utterly impassive to her state of undress. Jon notices he simply blinks elongatedly when she informs him that Tyrion’s execution has been postponed. In its stead, she orders a mid-morning council meeting, amongst the three of them and Davos. She rises utterly nude and unbothered as she dismisses him and it is only then that Greyworm averts his eyes to land a silently contemptuous look at Jon before exiting.

 

* * *

  
  
Later when he approaches the council room, he feels a tremor of anxiety before entering – he knows the news which is about to be shared and he knows he’s running impolitely late. The three of them are already seated. He realizes he’s never before seen Greyworm sit down.  
  
“Apologies for my tardiness, your grace.” He bows as he enters. He’d been delayed, diligently looking for and failing to find Arya amongst the wreckage of the keep. He’d spent some time amongst his troops, making sure they all knew to keep an eye out for her. Even so, he feels concern at her absence. Their last meeting left him with doubts, to say the least. He meets her eyes as he enters and Daenerys nods, leveling an encouraging look at him and motioning him to sit. They’d discussed this between themselves, just earlier this morning, but now that it’s time to share with someone other than his siblings, he feels a bout of avoidant trepidation.

 

Dany begins the meeting by thanking Davos for delegating the work in the kitchens. Coordinating nutrition for the troops seems to be his specialty and she is most gracious about acknowledging his efforts.

 

“There is something else, I’d like to ask of you, Sir Davos.” The humble man looks abashed and curious at the same time. “My Hand is no longer available to perform his duties and I understand you are thoroughly familiar with King’s Landing. For the time being, would you be willing to lend your council to me while we see to the emergent needs of the city?” Davos looks genuinely perplexed and a bit torn. He gapes at the Queen, flattered and slightly terrified, before casting a look begging Jon for reprieve. He manages to stammer out as polite a response as he can manage.

 

“Your Grace, I am so honored to be considered but I’m hardly qualified … and with all due respect, I’m sworn to serve Lord Snow.” Davos’ face is etched with the severity of concern. At this, Dany’s and Aegon’s eyes meet across the table. She nods, slightly, a subtle motion of encouragement. It is time.

 

He swallows his trepidation and opens his mouth.

 

He finds himself observing himself distantly as he repeats the facts once more, relaying them impartially to this small audience. He’d allowed Bran to do this work for him previously and he understands even more acutely now, how cowardly that had been. As he hears the words come out of his mouth, the names of his parents uttered aloud as he feels himself enunciate the six syllables _Aegon_ _Targaryen_ he begins to understand the power of naming, of telling his own story, of owning himself, his whole self, his wolf and his dragon, his past, and his present. He realizes it is this yoking together that will allow him to write his future. The bundle of anxiety unknots itself and another layer of shame and secrecy begins to slough off like a heavy coat, unnecessary for this season. As he finishes speaking, he looks up to see Dany, sitting calmly, a cool and reserved look on her face, but underneath the veneer he notices the way her chin tilts, and her lips tweak at their sides a subtle look of pride, even of joy peeking forward. He allows himself to feel the warmth of that pride, ever so slightly.

 

Greyworm, stoic as ever, doesn’t appear to understand the gravitas of these implications as clearly as Davos does. The old man’s honest face is so agape, it’s almost comical. He turns to Dany, a supplication in his eyes, searching for confirmation.

 

Finally, she does smile, eyes warmly tethered to Jon’s before turning and nodding in Davos’ direction.

 

“We are sharing this with you both now because ravens revealing this information have already been dispensed throughout the Kingdoms, with the intent to sow strife. However, where there is unity, discord cannot take root.”  She elucidates. Aegon interjects supportively.

 

“It is important we move forward, thoughtfully, united as a House.” His eyes seek out hers where they share a poignant gaze of mutual appreciation. “New Ravens declaring such will be penned and sent out today.” Aegon continues, declaratively.

 

Davos, to his credit, is quick to integrate this landfall. He brings his hand to his face, rubbing the scruff of his beard, a dazed look turning to amusement before letting out a small chuckle. The Targaryens look at him inquisitively.

 

“Well I’ll be damned.” He chortles. “That red witch was finally right about something. Ice and fire, indeed.” He shakes his head amused and bemused before an expression of avuncular concern crosses his features.

 

“You two are sorting things out then?” He inquires with a dash of reprimand at them both, acknowledging his awareness of the rift he’d observed between them. Dany nods, actually lowering her eyes shyly. Davos’ concern reminds her of Ser Barriston. There are few men alive who have been able to chide her from a place of love. Davos may be the only one left who has that power.

 

A soft “Aye” from Jon.

 

“Aunt and nephew, eh? Well that’s something.” Davos continues, processing out loud. Jon feels himself blush slightly. Davos picks up on the subtle embarrassment and attempts to remedy himself. “I only mean, there’s not much family resemblance.” He makes light and Dany smiles, tight lipped but appreciative. Aegon slips his hand to her thigh underneath the table.

 

“Will you accept the position as Hand to House Targaryen, sir Davos?” Dany clarifies sweetly, returning to her original question. She feels the squeeze of her thigh and laces her fingers through his.

 

Aegon and Dany turn to look at each other. Davos pauses to appreciate them.

 

“You mean to rule together?” He clarifies without ceding just yet. He wants to be sure. The events of the last few weeks have had him confused and abashed. Jon looks back at him and nods.

 

“Aye, Sir Davos. Together.” The old man’s eyes travel between them, appraisingly. A look of plain relief settles over him. From Winterfell, he’d ridden beside an even more sullen that usual Jon Snow and it had been a painfully dour few weeks. Lord Snow’s brooding demeanor had exacerbated tenfold since whatever conflict or distance had been provoked between himself and the Dragon Queen. Davos is not one to pry or conjecture too much but even before the wreckage of King’s Landing he’d been concerned about their respective emotional states. Now that he’s been witness to what the Queen is capable of he feels even more certain that harmony amongst the monarchs can only serve harmony for the realm. Perhaps together they can bring out the best in one another. Perhaps not. Regardless, he can’t imagine a future in which denying either of them would bode well for him.

 

“It would be my honor.” He affirms humbly and with a solemn bow of his head. Dany grins and nods to Aegon, who pulls out Tyrion’s abandoned brooch from his own pocket and stands from his seat. Davos stands as well.  
  
She observes the small ritual appreciatively and with a touch of melancholy. She feels an affection for Davos and trusts him enough to ask him of this. Yet she notices herself reflecting upon Tyrion, recalling the bond they’d forged for the past few years. He had come to her at a time of great need and had proven himself clever and loyal and enjoyable. Even her dragons had warmed to him more than any others since Doreah and now Jon. She recalls that beautiful afternoon in Meereen when she’d first presented him with the brooch as a gift. The tears in his eyes had been genuine. The devotion true.

 

_I believe in you._

 

The memory of his once pure devotion sours in her mind. She finds herself missing him, despite herself. Despite his betrayal. He had been more than a hand, she’d truly come to care for him as a friend and she realizes she’s already mourning him, despite he’s not even dead yet. This jars her back to the present. There is much to be accomplished today.

 

The meeting continues with more efficacy. Tyrion’s delayed execution is addressed tersely. It’s decided that the Unsullied will patrol the city, accompanied by begrudging Northern Troops to sort out survivors, while the Dothraki will take charge of the more tedious cleanup of the Keep, their strength more suited for the intensity of repetitious manual labor.

 

These rolls are practical and divided along skill set and language capacity. The Unsullied are slightly more adept at the common tongue and simply less foreboding in demeanor. The city’s survivors are in a state of distress and in desperate need of medical attention and provisions.

 

Daenerys, to her credit, insists on being involved in all the details. She approaches the tasks with a grim sense of personal responsibility. She is particularly driven to establish proper sickhouses and public kitchens for the citizens of King’s Landing, prioritizing medical aid and nutritional support above all else, for the time being. Together, Dany and Davos embark on a strategy to triage the city, neighborhood by neighborhood, Davos being the only one among them with a working knowledge of the city’s topography.

 

Aegon finds himself paired with Greyworm, tersely communicating on how to best collaborate their respective forces. The tension between them is palpable and he finds himself impatient and frustrated as the morning wears on with few agreements, their language barriers exacerbated by their respective stubbornness. He wills himself to exemplify more humility but is concerned that this may be indicative of how his Northmen will interact with the Unsullied troops.

 

They are finally preparing to adjourn and depart, each appraised of the other team’s tasks and goals when an urgent knock greets them. The Queen’s Unsullied Guards permit two Dothraki warriors to enter. Jon watches with curious concern as they deliver a pressing message to Daenerys.

 

_“Zohhe sorfo zafra ez thir.”_

 

Jon studies her as she exchanges words with her guards and then turns to Greyworm, conveying a message in Valyrian. He’s becoming more adept at discerning between the two. The Dothraki recognizably harsh and guttural, whereas the Valyrian cadences are welcome and lyrical. His ears strain to interpret her facial expressions in correlation to the sounds uttered. He’s still hopelessly lost. She purses her lips, brings a hand to her chin thoughtfully and then nods to her men.

 

“Carry on, as planned.” She speaks to both Davos and Jon.

 

“I will join you when I can, Sir Davos. I need to attend to Cersei’s prisoners discovered in the dungeons.” She nods solemnly, lingering only a half beat longer on Jon’s eyes before she departs, flanked by Unsullied and Dothraki.

 

* * *

  

The stench coming from the dungeons is so repugnantly replete with rot, her steps actually falter. She braces one arm against a stone wall as the sharp wave of nausea stinging the back of her throat rolls through her clenching stomach and brings tears to her eyes. It takes all of her practiced breath and resolve, not to bend and heave at the feet of her guardsmen. Even so, her head spins while her mouth fills with saliva, as she swallows forcefully, the pressing purge barely waylaid. If not for the trust engendered between them, that these precise blood riders have already seen her naked and walking through fire, have seen her slay thousands upon dragonback, again and again, she would feel more shame at her disinclination to descend these steps.

 

But she’s certain she can’t proceed without vomiting and a different version of her pride takes priority. And so it is that the few surviving prisoners are brought to her. Their odor is at least of the living variety.

 

There are only a few straggling survivors, however the Dothraki warn her that there is a portion of the dungeon cursed by witchcraft, littered with bizarrely animated limbs and strewn with foul smelling potions. She orders the limbs burned, ponders with trepidation about this alleged witchcraft and watches pensively as each prisoner files by, greeting each one with a smile and instructing handmaidens on where to direct their care. Daenerys initially doesn’t recognize her as her emaciated form is supported up the steps by an Unsullied, her gaunt legs trembling up the steps, dark hair matted over her face. It is only when she raises her eyes on the last step that Dany gasps. As haunted and dour as they are, she’d recognize those piercing dark eyes anywhere.

 

“Ellaria.” She murmurs, a maternal concern, washing through her as she steps forward, offering her own shoulder to support the taller woman.

 

The Queen oversees the care of Cersei’s prisoners, but prioritizes Ellaria. The haunted look in her eyes reminds Daenerys of what she must have looked like her first few days as Drogo’s wife: beaten and diminished, hopeless and vacant.

 

The way Ellaria flinches at the slightest approach or noise, the way her wide eyes search about with an almost feral fear, strikes a fire of compassion in Dany. They had not spent enough time together to become close friends however Ellaria’s fierce fortitude engendered respect from Dany and she feels a sense of camaraderie drive her care for this woman. Rationally, she knows she’s spending too much time on a domestic task that the handmaids could oversee with ease but Ellaria’s vulnerability keeps her from re-joining Davos for some time. There is no one else in this castle whom Ellaria is familiar with. She won’t abandon her before she’s at least settled in her chambers.

 

Ellaria’s hygiene and hydration are of the utmost importance. Dany has the servants set up a tub in an adjacent room to her own in the Maiden Vault and she helps them bathe Ellaria with tenderness, while spoon feeding her teas and broths. The woman was always slender but is now so emaciated, Dany wonders if she was fed at all. Never before has Dany seen up close the living consequences of Cersei’s conniving and calculated cruelty and the visceral reality gives her pause. Ellaria is skeletal, and yet bruised, her body a husk and covered in various bites and sores. Some scars may as well be tattooed, Dany is not sure that they’ll ever truly fade. Her hair is matted and lice ridden. The servants do their best to comb it out and then with her permission, it is decided to cut most of it away. In the midst of all of this, Dany and Ellaria manage to share a few words. Ellaria is deeply responsive to Daenerys’ tenderness and voices gratitude even as she shares her tales of torture and despair. Dany assures her that Cersei is dead, and that Ellaria is safe and welcome here. When she learns of the torture Cersei put Ellaria through, she instinctively brings a hand to her belly, the thought of watching her own daughter die before her eyes, so horrific she tries to push away the gruesome visualization she’s received. If Cersei were not already dead, she’d kill her again for what she’d done to Ellaria and her daughters. She feels vindicated in her ruthlessness towards the red keep.

 

And so it is that it is late in the day before she rejoins Davos and even later before she mounts Drogon to survey the city for the first time since the battle.

 

* * *

 

Jon’s day is not any more easeful. He had intended to have Dany stand beside him when he addressed his troops but quickly realizes that her absence is a blessing. Ser Davos stands stoically beside him as he informs his men that their service is required for at least another week. The NorthMen are neither impressed nor eager to aid in the emergency services for the remaining citizens of King’s Landing. As far as they are concerned, they’ve done their duty. None grumble direct dissent but it is mostly in their posture and their glowers that inform Jon of their resentment. Frankly, he cannot blame them.

 

But it is the subsequent information that he’s sure will upset them more. He’s not wrong.

He glances at Davos before launching into his exposition. He knows he’s risking outright defection but he believes he owes them honesty before he demands more of their labor and service. Furthermore, there is no telling when the news will begin spreading. The first of Varys’ ravens have likely already been delivered. The sooner they hear the news directly from Jon, the better.

 

And so it is that he informs them of his identity. Blunt and terse as is his style. There are widespread murmurs and side glances as he finishes his succinct but dense speech. He hears the word “Targaryen” muttered throughout the men. One man boldly calls out “We’ve been duped by a Dragon in Wolf’s hide.”

 

“Who said that?” Davos demands. “Show yourself.”

 

One of Lord Manderly’s soldiers steps forward. He is older than most. Old enough to remember the Baratheon Rebellion. Unsurprisingly, the majority of the remaining soldiers are relatively young. He glowers at Davos and Jon respectively, his chin tilted in defiance.

 

“I knew there was something off about you riding that dragon.” The men glance at each other nervously. This man is practically begging for a beheading. “Not Ned’s Bastard but Rhaegar’s.” He growls disdainfully and then he spits at the ground. Jon sighs heavily.

 

“That’s enough.” Davos glowers seriously. “He’s no Bastard. He’s the King.” An audible murmur moves through the crowd. “Another word and you’ll be executed.” Davos asserts firmly.

 

Jon is grateful but understands he can’t allow his Hand to steer this ship. He plants his feet more firmly into the earth, orders the man arrested and raises his voice.

 

“We’ve fought side by side as brothers through many battles. Protected the realm from the Night King and have now defeated Cersei. The Seven Kingdoms are indebted to your bravery and grateful for the North’s loyalty. Less than a fortnight remains in your service. Let us now work together peacefully to make order of this wreckage so you can head home to your families before Winter takes hold. I will escort those of you leaving back to the Trident within the fortnight but will return to King’s Landing to rule beside Queen Daenerys. Those of you who want to remain, are welcome here and will be well fed. Now let’s get to work.”

 

The day’s work he speaks of is strenuous and not so simple. The sky is morosely dark and overcast all day, confusing their sense of time but the chill in the air makes him wonder how much is truly ash versus how much is the climate of impending winter. The troops make headway through the streets of the city, clearing debris and sorting through survivors accompanied by Unsullied. Jon monitors their interactions constantly but tension is high and morale low. The Unsullied comport themselves with impeccable stoicism, but the Northmen are full of taunts and grumbles. Jon is frustrated that it’s his own men who still require more surveillance amongst vulnerable women and children. The disdain he receives from Greyworm doesn’t help his mood. Although civil on the surface, their interactions continue to be as taut as a fresh bow string. Greyworm’s distrust and contempt are palpable. He doesn’t particularly enjoy the man either. He keeps an eye out for Arya the entire day and remains disappointed when he fails to spot her despite having mounted a horse and searching her through as many streets as he can.

 

At one point, Drogon’s shrieks fill the sky, his wings casually flapping as he languidly flies about the periphery of the city. Jon watches in dismay as the dozens of survivors in a small medical camp shriek, run and hide in terror. He can’t tell if Dany is riding atop or not but he wonders how the citizens will ever cope or settle if Drogon is permitted to fly about at his own leisure.

 

Even after the men have been given leave to return to camp for the night, Jon insists on continuing his search for Arya. Although he feels relatively certain she can care for herself, his concern for her well-being matches his concern for whatever she might be plotting in absentia. Only as the waxing moon rises higher on the horizon plump and stout does it occur to him that leaving Daenerys unguarded with Arya’s whereabouts unknown is perhaps not the most sound of plans.

 

* * *

 

 

The night guards have already taken up their post when he arrives and he lets himself in quietly in case she is already sleep. She is, in fact, in bed, naked but for the massive lion pelt draped around her, a variety of scrolls strewn about the mattress. The fire in the hearth burns brightly and the room is almost uncomfortably warm. She looks at him and bats her eyes sheepishly, quickly making to collect the scrolls. He smiles back, realizing she’s obliging his no working in bed actum.

 

“Sorry I’m so late.” He murmurs as he moves to deftly remove his gambeson and breeches when she stands up to cross the room and store the scrolls. He watches, rapt, as her silver waves fall over her bare body. The lion pelt is so long, it drags along the floor behind her. She looks delicate and feral all at the same time, the wild elegance of her duality taking his breath away, yet again.

 

“I still haven’t found her.” He admits, suppressing the flame of lust to share with her his failure and his concern. She nods in grim acknowledgement about Arya’s continued disappearance.

 

“Your sister seems the type who will allow herself to be found only when she is ready to engage.” Dany remarks wisely, though Jon only continues scowling as he proceeds to undress roughly. She lightens her tone. “Perhaps she’s headed south to join Lord Baratheon.” Dany muses, quietly. Jon’s head jerks up as his tunic comes off.

 

“Why would she do that?” He asks, genuinely confused. Dany just shakes her head smiling, unwilling to conjecture openly about the silent glances and poignant body language she’d observed in Winterfell. She pauses briefly to appreciate his shirtless frame and opts to shift the subject.

 

“Have you eaten?” She asks, accustomed to the ways of warrior men who climb into bed late. He shakes his head. He’d forgone supper with his men in favor of exploring another quarter of the city, searching for his sister. In doing so he’d discovered there are actually entire sections relatively unscathed. He’d assumed the city was wholly demolished but truthfully, the worst damage was at the peripheries and en route to the keep.

 

“There’s some bread, cheese and ale.” She nods to a side table covered with a cloth. He cocks his head at her, in grateful discomfort over her care giving. She smiles sweetly and perches herself atop the bed once more. “Best eat it, I don’t want this place rat infested.” She murmurs over her shoulder, feigning sternness. When he combs his hand through his hair, he feels it gritty with ash and makes the extemporaneous choice to dunk his head in the remaining water, scrubbing at it roughly, before pulling away and shaking his head messily. Without reaching for a towel, he plucks the plate of food from the table and ambles over to the bed, good naturedly, still dripping and stark naked. Daenerys’ eyes widen incredulously and she brings her arms up as though to bar him entrance.

 

“Oh no you don’t!” She protests, trying to suppress a smile as he hops onto the furs, joining her with a playful growl, shaking his damp curls and speckling her with droplets of water. She crosses her arms over her chest in a forced grouse and shakes her head.

 

“Terrible manners.” She grumbles as he plops a playful kiss on her lips. “And to think you were raised in a castle.” She rolls her eyes affectedly.

 

He grins and takes an uncouth mouthful of bread, snarling at her defiantly before lunging at her neck to tickle her with his beard. She shrieks in surprise and laughter, squirming away from his pouncing dampness. It’s all he can do to keep the platter from slipping while pinning her beneath him.

 

“I like to eat in bed.” He smiles down at her, after swallowing his mouthful of bread and licking his lips. She grins up at him still shaking her head slightly, holding him slightly at bay with her hands. “Is that alright with you, my queen?” He asks, a hungry growl in his voice. Her pupils widen but her eyes quickly pretend seriousness again and she bats him away.

 

“Dessert only.” She grins, raising her eyebrows flirtatiously before motioning him away. He relents and scoots at the edge of the bed to hold the plate away from the covers.

 

“Spoilsport.” He mutters while downing the rest of the cheese with a slosh of ale. He looks over his shoulder at her, where she is now laying on her side facing him, curled under the pelt but for the peak of bare skin, arm tucked under head sleepily, a dreamy and distant quality to her visage.

 

“You’re going to be a terrible influence on our children.” She murmurs, voice low with fatigue. He freezes, mug half way to his lips considering this endearing slip of the tongue and appraises her soft form, her eyes already fluttering closed. She looks so angelically cozy, he feels his heart thud and his body ache to be beside her, warm beneath these furs.

 

“Children?” He finally asks after a long silence, unsure if she can still hear him, while he makes to wash out his mouth.

 

“Hmm.” She responds rather belatedly. “Must teach them … manners.” Her voice is thick with sleep as he brings a towel to his head and then walks around to her side of the bed, before peeling the pelt back and climbing in behind her.

 

She shudders a bit to feel the coolness of his skin meeting hers but her form accommodates his immediately. He curls around her like a protective question mark, nestled into every nook and valley, forming fluidly around each curve and swell. He inhales her deeply as he wraps his arm around her middle, his fingers following her familiar topography, he fills his palm with her breast, feels her exhale fully and then tucks his fingers just under the plump heaviness, warming himself. Even in her somnolence, she arches her back contentedly, her rump nestling against his groin with alarming precision, he inhales the back of her neck where her hair has parted and mentally prepares himself to embrace sleep despite the indiscrete stirring in his cock. Arriving back too late for lovemaking was his own doing. He disciplines his mind and another thought occurs to him.

 

“What were you reading?” He asks curiously. At this she stirs and turns, her face serious, eyebrows arched with concern.

 

“I’m trying to make sense of the city’s streets and waterways.” She admits while her eyebrows furl. “By some miracle the library was spared.” She grins at him in something like awe. “Davos and I scoured the section on the keep’s architecture and city plans, but I’m afraid my education was rather inadequate. It was easier to learn Dothraki than make sense of those mathematical drawings.” She purses her lips sorely and in self-disappointment. He lingers on her in momentary wonder at her mind’s tenacity, at the way she is always forward thinking and casually brazen to endeavor such a feat. He leans forward to kiss the tip of her nose and she smiles in gratitude.

 

“It will be months before a new Maester arrives from the citadel.” She continues. “The rebuilding can’t take that long.” At this he sighs. She’s veering dangerously close to council meeting territory again. She opens her mouth to speak again and he silences her with a kiss. When he pulls away she smiles.

 

“We can wait to discuss it in the morning.” She grins in acquiescence. “How was your day?” She asks, turning her inquisitive attention on him. He grimaces a bit and buries his face into her neck, inhaling her deeply, pleased when she lets out a contented sigh.

 

“That good, huh?” She chuckles when he finally pulls away to look at her. He’s utterly uninterested in discussing this. He’d rather be tasting her. He shakes his head and brings a finger to trail along her collarbone. She shivers under his touch but her eyes still bore into his. He sighs wanting to get the summary over with so he can move forward to more pleasant activities.

 

“Came forward to my men about my name.” He exposits swiftly. “Only one arrest. No mutiny yet.” She scowls at his morbid jest. “Made good headway clearing some streets. Delivered water to the sickhouses and refugee stations. Got on smashingly with Greyworm.” He mutters sarcastically. At this she cocks her head and narrows an eye.

 

“Is there trouble with my commander?” She asks seriously. He immediately regrets his comment.

 

“No. Not at all.” He tries to smooth it over. She regards him skeptically. “Nothing explicit anyway.” She doesn’t soften the stern question on her face. “Fellow doesn’t seem to like me much is all.”

 

At this her head falls back into a grin and she chuckles. She brings her gaze back and shakes her head, tucking a hand under his chin.

 

“He’s just doing his job, isn’t he?” She smiles at him endearingly, like she can’t believe it bothers him, though it truly does. Her commander’s resentful silence is cutting. Finally, she sighs in a very tolerating way and scratches at his chin a bit more.

 

“Torgho Nudo is unfailingly loyal and very protective of me.” She explains patiently, still smiling. “It might require some diligence to win his trust but when you do it will be well earned, I’m sure.” She continues to smile at his grouchy face and mutters jokingly.

 

“Took some years before he warmed up to Daario.” When Jon’s scowl only deepens she rolls her eyes good naturedly, refusing to take him seriously, however when he proceeds to huff jealously and in discontent, her face loses its softness. She pulls away slightly and he immediately feels remorse. She looks away from him, in solemn contemplation before returning to his eyes, a poignant sadness in her demeanor.

 

“Have you thought about how hard this must be for him, Jon?” She asks him poignantly. He is taken aback by the question. Her eyebrows furl so sadly.

 

“When he came into my service, he was little more than a boy. Orphaned, enslaved, gelded … and a most skilled soldier. All I’ve ever given him is opportunity to fight, but Missandei, she gave him purpose beyond military service.” Jon realizes she’s not speaking about Daario at all. Her eyes take on the distant gaze of memory.

 

“I may be his Queen in name but Missandei was the Queen of his heart.” She murmurs tenderly, absently stroking Jon’s chest over his scar. Tears form in her eyes as they meet his. “He watched his partner beheaded, Jon. His love.” Her voice quivers slightly and she swallows holding back the onslaught that threatens to cascade out of her as this concept washes over him. They both pause in silent thought each respectively recalling their dead lovers. “So what if he’s mistrustful of you?” She finally shrugs in earnest defense. “Earn his trust.” She insists matter-of-factly. “And perhaps grant him some generosity for his grief.” She wipes the tear away from her cheek and purses her lips together in resolve.

 

He feels utterly chastened and confused. He’d hadn’t had an inkling about Greyworm’s relationship with Missandei. When he learned the unsullied were eunuchs he’d assumed compulsive celibacy and hadn’t given it another moment’s thought. He remembers how he’d felt desolate, devastated and certainly grouchy, after Ygrette’s death. It is not hard for him to summon more empathy for Greyworm and to resolve for better communication efforts upon learning of his loss. Their military discords may take longer to sort out but in this he can definitely extend consideration.

 

“Of course.” He murmurs softly, genuine remorse and compassion flowing forth. He can’t suppress his curiosity. “I didn’t know they were together.” He admits, a question etched in his brow. Daenerys nods, grief still lacing her face.

 

“I had already set aside a ship for their return to Naath.” She offers, swallowing back the tight lump in her throat. She and Missandei had discussed it quietly before leaving Winterfell, had mutually agreed that they’d wait until after the Kingdoms were won and the baby was born before she’d depart for her homeland. The intention had been clearly defined and bittersweet. She had been preparing to let her best friend go. But not like this. It has barely been over a fortnight since Missandei’s beheading and it both feels so fresh and so ancient a tragedy. Missandei was the closest she’d ever had to a sister and her loss is unique amongst the litany of losses in Dany’s life. She’d wanted so badly to do right by her. To keep her safe. Something she’d consistently failed to do with all the rest.

 

He studies the carefully composed anguish on her features and feels useless. He recalls the day on Dragonstone over a year ago when Missandei had told him precisely that – that Daenerys would equip her with a ship should she choose to leave. He’d been acutely skeptical and frustrated by what he perceived as soft-spoken naivety. How things had changed over the course of that year.

He feels a knot of regret in his gut as he contemplates all the minute and magnificent ways he’s misread various dynamics and remained terse when he should have spoken up.

 

“I love you.” He whispers after an elongated pause. She smiles wanly though her gratitude is authentic. She then ducks her head shyly into his shoulder hugging herself closer to him. She sinks into the warmth of his body, rests against the beat of his heart and appreciates the weight of the lion pelt around them both. It is her only private relic of Drogo’s. The only thing other than the hoard itself that still links her to him. She allows herself to feel an ache for his loss, and gratitude for all the beauty his absence has afforded her, like this moment for instance. This temporary safety and solace in her beloved’s arms. She burrows deeper, allowing him to hold her tighter as her heart hovers in a cloud of melancholy tenderness for Drogo, for Jorah, for Missandei. The now familiar exhaustion begins to wrap around her heavily like her fur and she is grateful for the foggy edges of fatigue that dull her pain. She feels him caressing her shoulders and even as liquid warmth pulses through her, so does the stronger pull of sleep. He hears her yawn sweetly, even as her body squirms into a more precise fit into his. She snuggles her face deeper into the crook of his armpit and hears him laugh when she finally replies.

 

“You too.”  With a contended yawn.

 

He absently moves her loose hair aside, tracing his fingers up and down her neck, over her shoulders. When she doesn’t respond with the liveliness typical to his caresses, he wills himself to breathe with discipline the way he exercised restraint at castle black. He keeps rubbing her back in gentle circles, and when her limbs twitch slightly and her breaths deepen, he feels himself relax also and leans back, accommodating them both so that her head rests gently against his chest. He resolves to sleep tonight and get home earlier on the morrow.

 

“Sweet dreams.” He murmurs gruffly and at this she murmurs. “You don’t have to stop.” Her voice thick and far away. He smiles with his eyes closed.  
  
“You’re very sleepy, my love.” He remarks amusedly. She stirs slightly and he feels her grip on him tighten. He blinks an eye open to see her own heavy lidded eyes gazing at him drowsy earnestness.

 

“It’s true.” She agrees. “But we still can … if you’re willing to do most of the work tonight.” She smiles, her eyebrows arching with bashful candor. And then she does the thing that changes his mind. She trails her fingers over the scar on his heart and in a voice, thick with sleep breathes sweetly “I missed you.”  
  
He turns to kiss her and feels her mouth open beneath him in a welcome exhale, just as her leg tips ajar to urge him on top. He is only mildly surprised to feel her already slick.

When they join moments later, it is sleepy and slippery, a languorous melding that blurs the boundaries of waking and dreaming realms. They drift in a cloud of gentle rhythm and dancing pastels as their bodies move in unhurried delirium, each dissolving into the other as salt into snow. The tenor of their union is all petals and seafoam, effervescent in its simple solvent tenderness. Tonight, surrender is not chased but received quiescently and when they crest it is more of a descent into the respite of stardust, the musical notes of her quiet moans mingling with the distant crackle of the dying fire, to carry them both off into a benevolent slumber.

* * *

 

 

 _He is jogging through the red keep with confidence. His bare feet landing lightly on the stone steps, the epic stone labyrinth so familiar to him._ _The walls are lit and he can see her in the distance, silver hair flying loose behind her, the pitter patter of her bare feet as well as her giggles echoing against the stone walls that flicker and sway from torchlight. Her feet still and it is the cadence of her laughter that betrays her proximity as he approaches eagerly. He pauses when he reaches an empty corridor before he sees the gentle sway of a large tapestry._

_“Dany.” He breathes and ducks his head behind the fabric to see her grinning at him expectantly in the darkness. She backs away deeper behind the tapestry and he lunges toward her playfully, snagging her by the waist and pinning her to the wall behind them, their bodies shielded by the thick fabric behind them. She sighs deeply and softens against him, smiling and he feels the fire stoked in his groin, feeling the pounding of her chest against his._

_“Daemon, don’t.” She cautions him, as he moves to bring his mouth to hers. He pauses confusedly, her purple eyes filled with conflicted yearning and restraint._

_“We shouldn’t.” She mutters, though her eyes are full of longing, her lips moist and her breaths ragged with desire. He growls hungrily, only momentarily considering this before he spins her around so her chest is pressed to the stone, his own hardness pressed against her back. He nips at her neck and her gasp only encourages him. He grips her skirt and slides a hand up her thigh as she quivers, moaning softly._

_“Dany, I want you.” He growls in her ear and he hardens further as he feels her tremble against him, her hands pressed against the stone in front of them. He reaches into her smallclothes, luxuriating in the damp heat he finds. She squirms against him, her rump rubbing against his hardness infuriatingly._

_“Daemon, don’t.” She insists, the firmness of her voice, in direct defiance of her body. He doesn’t stop, dipping a finger into her damp folds._

_“Please.” Her voice is pleading. “Don’t.” She insists, her hands pushing against the stone wall. “Stop.” He doesn’t. One hand grips her wrist against the wall, the other continues his ministrations inside her smallclothes._

_“Don’t.” She repeats. “Stop.” Again and again she insists though she continues to squirm and sigh against him. And then he’s unbuckling his trousers, lifting her skirts and plunging inside her with liquid ease, pressing her against the stone with each satisfying thrust even as she pleads for him to stop._

* * *

 

 

Jon’s eyes fling open in horror, mid thrust. He is astride, Dany pressed belly down, beneath him, slick and moaning, one of his hands is gripping her wrist tightly high above her head, the other tucked between her thighs, gripping her clitoris. He pulls his hands away and lets her wrist go in revulsion as he pushes himself up on his palms, still inside of her, shaking his head trying to make sense of his surroundings, his mind clouded and foggy in the darkness. The images are tangled in his mind and he begins to pull out in terror and disgust even as he feels her bum raise in response, burying him deeper despite his attempt to disengage.

 

“Jon, please.” She whimpers. “Don’t stop.” She grinds against him, expertly, repeating the mantra as he refuses to obey even as his body screams to oblige her.

 

He raises himself up on his haunches anyway, bringing his hands to comb through his hair in profound disorientation. His heart is hammering in his chest, which is covered in a thin layer of perspiration, though the room has cooled as the fire has dimmed to embers. His member remains resolutely turgid and he feels the chill meet the dampness on his cock as he pulls fully out of her. Dany sighs in disappointment and turns immediately in dismay and confusion.

 

“What happened?” She asks, concern lacing her shadowed features. He’s breathing deeply, trying to grasp onto the images in his dream even as the clarity fades, leaving only unease and an aftertaste of repulsion. He brings his hands away from his face and slides them onto her bare shoulders.

 

“I don’t know …” He murmurs honestly, shaking his head slightly. “I thought … maybe I was hurting you … forcing you.” He admits, swallowing the bile of disgust he feels towards himself. She cocks her head curiously and then crawls closer to him, reaching a hand out to cup his stones as she leans up to plant a kiss on his lips.

 

“Nonsense.” She smiles and licks her lips, amethyst eyes glittering with desire even in the darkened room. Her eyes, so identical to the others, but this time without any resistance. “You could never.” She purrs huskily, the sensual certainty in her tone, only magnifying his clamoring doubt. Couldn’t he? Hasn’t he already? He squeezes his own eyes shut, trying to make sense of the rapidly fading memory. She strokes him with practiced precision, reclaiming his firmness.

 

“Look at me.” She instructs as she climbs into his lap. His eyes spring wide, in immediate obeisance. She hovers above him, her unrelenting gaze, forcing him back to the present. Her hair is loose about her, the silver appearing to give off a subtle glow. Her lips are plump and open, inviting, and he sighs as she slowly lowers herself around him, until he’s buried inside her again, and her eyes are level to his. When she kisses him, he allows himself to sink into the fecundity of the moment, welcomes the way she commands the rhythm with subtle finesse, her hips rocking above his, the purple in her eyes darkening like a storm.

 

“I choose you, my King.” She finally whispers as she leans forward, wrapping her arms around his neck.

 

* * *

 

 

This is how their first few days proceed. Their respective workloads increase as the ash and trauma settle and survivor’s come forth more and more desperate.

 

With the exception of council meetings, they spend most of the day light hours apart, Aegon, patrolling the outer city with the troops and searching for Arya while Daenerys oversees other areas closer to the red keep. Despite her desire to be on the ground zero, he prefers a divestment of their tasks, prefers her where she is safer, out of the reaches of angry or sick civilians. Besides, their strengths complement one another. Her intellect is suited for the burgeoning bureaucratic tasks and long term planning involved in rebuilding while his kinetic impatience engenders rapid military efficiency. Her gentle charm soothes survivors best once they have been offered shelter his men have provided. He avoids Tyrion’s cell though the unpleasant task pesters his mind daily. The ash continues to fall and the chill in the air increases. They all pray for some rain to clear the awful air. Some soldiers are developing coughs. Drogon is restless but has agreed to hunt over the ocean away from the city.  
  
Their nights are spent furtive and intimate and exhausted. Their love making, ardent and yet for practical reasons, more concise. But for their occasionally disturbing dreams, they both revel in the restoration of night, of coming home to their chambers after a long day and resting in each others arms. Jon in particular, revels in the security he feels, breathing her in, her touch the last memory before sleep claims him, and her scent being the first thing that entices him out of slumber.

 

It is on the fourth morning that he reaches for her and startles awake, his arms more frantic than his awareness, seeking her out. He sits up, hearing a noise, searching, and furls his brow as he spots her, quietly sitting on the floor, knees tucked underneath her, shoulders bent, cradling a chamber pot on her thighs, more primly than this act deserves. Her exhales are methodical and practiced, self-soothing and then he sees her body shudder as a purgative wave travels up through her. She expels into the pot, politely, repeatedly, riding each wave with a gritty grace.

 

Her practiced self-sufficiency prevents her from prolonging the day’s tasks despite his vocal concern about her well-being. She shrugs it off and pushes ahead toward their council meeting where Ellaria has now joined Davos and Greyworm and Kovarro. It is on this morning that the ravens begin arriving, just ahead of the storm.

 

* * *

 

They are back in their chambers, intentionally recused so as to not expose this taut conversation in the presence of their council. Among the various ravens with distressing news, one has arrived from Winterfell, from Sansa specifically, declining Aegon’s summons to King’s Landing. Daenerys is livid, pacing scornfully. They had poured over the phrasing with patient caution, deliberately framing it as an invitation from Jon although every other Kingdom had received an explicit summons from the Targaryens. She cannot believe the impertinence and has no patience for it. She has half a mind to climb on Drogon and take care of this herself. Jon is brooding, in typical manner, while doing his best to placate her anger, to subdue her into reason.

 

“Dany, she’s my sister. I love her and have sworn to protect her. She just needs time. I know her. She’s frightened and proud but she _will_ come around.” He watches fretfully as Dany paces from one end of their chambers to the other. She swivels at him amethyst eyes sparking with a cold defiance.

 

“Your trust in Sansa nearly cost me my life, forgive me if I don’t believe in your convictions.” She levels forth accusatorily. As far as she’s concerned, Sansa has had ample opportunity to _come around_ , and in fact she’s only distanced herself further continuing to display deliberate disobedience and outright treachery.

 

“I underestimated her, it’s true.” He affirms. “But she’s not treacherous Dany. She’s just self-protective. You of all people should understand that.” He tries to appeal to her compassion and misses the mark. She scowls at him furiously, only permitting his forwardness from a place of deep rooted trust. “Underneath her fear, she’s clever and reasonable and I know I can reach her to change her mind.” He believes this, he does. She trusts his earnestness but she doesn’t trust his assessment of Sansa. She breathes deeply, tamping down her fury, calling forth the discipline of pragmatism.

 

“And what if she doesn’t? What if she persists in rebellion?” Daenerys challenges him, this time with less anger, and more measure. The question is valid.

 

They glare at each other, each defiant, each stubbornly convicted in their respective stances. He clenches his jaw and refuses to acquiesce, his mind still fool heartedly resisting the likelihood of Sansa pursuing such a response. Dany changes her approach. She softens her voice and approaches him, smoothing her skirts, one hand pausing at her belly before she clasps her hands together in her usual manner.

 

“Did I ever tell you how Viserys died?” Jon shakes his head. He’d shared his own brother’s deaths with her but only knew that Viserys had died shortly before her son and husband had, his being the first of the three familial losses that preceded the birth of her dragons. She stands directly in front of him and breathes slowly, her voice even and surprisingly limpid for the information conveyed.

 

“He held a blade to my belly, threatened to cut Rhaego out of me and take me back for his own.” She delivers this message with unnerving stoicism, utterly devoid of the emotion the experience must have provoked at the time. He winces despite himself and looks away, vicarious shame searing through him. The combination of information and delivery provokes a forceful itching discomfort in his very marrow. That she endured such abuse, that her own blood, her very brother, was capable of delivering it -- the itch increases in agonizing volume.  She follows him with her eyes and grants him the moment, continuing only when he returns her gaze.

 

“So Drogo killed him.” She levels her eyes at him, remorseless. This time when he winces, he doesn’t look away. “I loved my brother, Jon.” She affirms sincerely and only then does he notice a small quiver in her voice revealing the tender honesty of that statement. “And he begged for my mercy. But when he threatened my child, it was never a question of choice. He’d already made his. I watched him die and knew it was the right thing.” Her eyes are solemn but unrelenting. She allows that information to settle for a beat. “I understand you love your sisters. If you truly want to protect them, make them understand there is no room for opposition.” She explains. “A threat to me is a threat to _our_ child. Dissent is equivalent to a blade to my belly and I will not have it.” Her tone is now curt and decisive. Merciless. This is not up for debate.

 

He is frowning, his eyes downcast in somber contemplation. The forlornness of his posture troubles her. She steps forward. Her voice softens.

 

“Jon.” She murmurs. “We both know there is no one better equipped to Warden the North, than Sansa. I too want her alive and leading. But in allegiance with us, not in defiance of.” This is true, also. If that woman were not so persistently disagreeable and treacherous, she believes they could be almost friends, so much does Dany respect her fundamental strength and skill.

 

His face is grief stricken, eyes still downcast in deep, pensive thought. The consequences of his own previously misguided trust loom heavily as do the implications of her story. Finally, he raises his eyes to hers, sorrowfully. She watches as his face hardens.

 

“Alright.” He finally assents, pursing his lips. “If it comes to that, I’ll execute her myself.” He affirms grimly.

 

Her eyes widen and she feels her heart clench in a tremor of surprised grief. That wasn’t quite what she expected nor is it the outcome she’d prefer. She blinks at him slowly, understanding how much it has cost him to utter than statement and it both terrifies her and endears him to her even more. She’s still assimilating the implications of his declaration of loyalty when he continues.

 

“But you will grant her the mercy of time. Grant me time to convince her. My sister has been through horrors, Dany. The likes of which, even you, can’t imagine.” She narrows her eyes, not enjoying the insinuation or the comparison of their respective traumas. “She’s mistrustful and protective because she’s been brutalized and betrayed. It’s not personal to you. It’s how she’s survived. And I know, _I know_ with some patience and kindness she will come to see that what is best for the North is her allegiance to us.” Jon is utterly true to his word. He means everything he’s just stated. Though in his heart of hearts he can’t bear the thought of actually killing his own sister (never mind that she’s his cousin) he is fully prepared to commit the act if absolutely necessary. However, a part of him still does not believe Sansa is as conniving as her litany of actions have displayed. The same quality of thought that allows him to remain loyal to Daenerys despite her choices, allows him to believe that Sansa too can be redeemed through patience and love.  

 

They are at a stolid impasse, both quietly assessing the other, allowing the conversation to settle like water through a sieve. Daenerys has no faith in Sansa and is exhausted by the implausible enmity that has coursed between them. In her estimation she’s been extraordinarily generous and the flagrant scorn she and her troops received from Lady Stark is fresh in her memory. Forgiveness and mercy come naturally to Dany but she is in a heightened state of self-protection herself. She has lost too much for the sake of the North and her generosity for that harsh place and its current red-headed ruler has been tapped dry. Like Jon, she meant exactly what she said. Before the mutual silence consumes them, he brings his hands up to caress her shoulders sadly, unwilling to allow the small distance between them to grow larger for lack of sound or touch. Her shoulders soften under his hands and her jaw releases with a sigh.

 

“And in the mean time?” She asks, acquiescing slightly.

 

“In the meantime. I will escort the NorthMen, who wish to return, back to the Trident, with the full knowledge that the North has been cut off from Southern resources until Sansa bends the knee.” He says so resolutely.

 

“An embargo?” Daenerys muses rhetorically, considering this. Aegon shrugs. It’s unpleasant but strategically sound.

 

“My sister is clever. She must know the North cannot truly support itself through Winter. Not without aid.” He is also fully aware of the state of her storerooms. He remains somber and decisive.

 

“And the smallfolk?” Daenerys asks, curiously. She knows the most vulnerable are whom Jon is dutifully concerned about.

 

“I will invite her to meet once more.” He affirms. “The smallfolk should know that Aegon Targaryen made every effort to protect the North.” Dany’s eyebrows raise unintentionally at his third person reference. They have been freely switching between each of his monikers intermittently but it still thrills her when he deliberately claims himself as the dragon that he is.

 

“They must know who to blame when their stores run out and the snow buries them.” He continues without remorse. She exhales deeply and nods, allowing him to pull her into his arms, each exhaling as their bodies meet in a tension relieving hug. It is here, in silent embrace where they each allow themselves to breathe and release the last vestiges of their discord. Being in conflict with one another unsettles them both in ineffably distressing ways. Yet, each time they move through tension and make it to the other side it feels exhaustingly victorious.

 

Eventually, Aegon inhales deeply, bringing this fingers to thread through her silver locks. The faint smell of rose that emanates from her soothes him and he murmurs belly deep.

 

“Dany?” His tone huskier.

 

“Hmm?” She asks, in her own reverie.

 

“Our children must know that family loyalty means forgiveness and reconciliation.”  At this, she lifts her head off his chest and looks up at him quizzically, a small smile pestering the corner of her mouth. He looks down at her, dark eyes somber and doleful, one thumb moving to gently caress her cheek.

 

“How can I teach them not to quarrel if I can’t make amends with my own sister?” He murmurs thoughtfully. She doesn’t correct him by reminding him Sansa is his cousin. She understands that in his heart, she will always be his sister. And although, Dany doesn’t have the faith in her that he does, she deeply appreciates that his present choices are being informed by the kind of father he wants to be. They haven’t had much opportunity to discuss their parenting ethos’ but her own choices, political and otherwise have been unequivocally tied to motherhood since the first time her womb quickened.

 

“The world we’re building must be a world of reconciliation, of unity.” He declares just as much for his own ears as for hers. She smiles up at him. They have variegated ideas about how to accomplish those goals but indeed, she agrees. She clears her throat, surprised at the emotion she feels.

 

“I suppose I am rather unskilled in the art of family reconciliation.” She admits cautiously. This is brand new terrain for her. There had never been equitable quarreling with Viserys, only submissive devotion until it was far too late to redeem any of their previous bond. No one had taught the Targaryen tykes how to relate and even if an adult Targaryen had survived, their family’s track record wasn’t exactly sparkling in familial tenderness. Passion, the Targaryens had aplenty but reconciliation? She can’t think of a single textbook story she’s read that describes that.

 

He studies her for a few beats, imbibing this revelation. Not for the first time is he left speechless when contemplating the astounding solitude and abandonment of her life. Sure he’d been ostracized and subsequently self-isolated but he’d never been wholly without family. Not truly. Even at the wall. Although he hadn’t known it at the time, he’d been blessed with Aemon’s generous care and wisdom. At this thought, his heart lurches into his throat.

 

“I’m no expert either.” He smiles softly. “But I’d like us to practice learning.” At this, a distant look takes over his visage. “After all, we are only human and the gods have fashioned us for love.” He murmurs, speaking a memory out loud.

 

“Pardon?” She asks, her quizzical smile returning at his poetic recitation. At the inquiry, his eyes come back into focus. He cups her face warmly in his hands.

 

“Master Aemon taught me that.” He nods. “He was the wisest man I ever met – our great uncle.” He holds her face with a firm tenderness, head bowed so near their breath mingles. “He loved you so very much and I’d wager Longclaw he’d be pleased with us learning this together – how to be a family.” His conviction is laced with such a youthful sweetness, it makes her heart ache with a rarified wonder and just as unusual, hope. Her eyes brim with tears in a way she’s unaccustomed.

 

This declaration is more than just a poetic musing, it’s a downright gift. Jon had cautiously shared about his time with Aemon during their nights together on the ship, but that was before they’d both known the extent of his relationship to them both. His acknowledgement of Aemon as both of theirs fills her with sedated joy and also with an echo of sorrow for the wise man she’d never had the honor of meeting.

 

Aegon leans in, their eyes fluttering closed as their lips meet. She welcomes him with a solemn gratitude, savoring the familiar texture and flavor of his lips, pert and laced with coarse hair, the spirit of reconciliation, mingling like their tongues. Slowly she suckles on his lower lip, lingering slightly before releasing him to look back up into his eyes.

 

“I want to learn.” She breathes in a heavy whisper. “Together.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sincere apologies for this delay. I wrote this draft long ago and subsequently lost steam and all interest in GoT while traipsing through the amazon jungle.  
> I learned that my main fanfic priority was really about editing out violently misogynistic betrayal and replacing it with restoratively feminist eroticism so once that was complete, I felt, well, complete.  
> Nonetheless, I was challenged by a reader to write an AU and so thoroughly enjoyed that creative exercise that I do have another couple chapters in the works.  
> If it felt like a filler, it truthfully sort of is. I really tried to get them out of the bedroom, but burnt KL is just so grimy, so it turns out that's the only place my imagination can have them interacting for now. I know I said Tyrion and Arya would be up next but it was just easier to back burner them while I tried to set up plotpoints for future chapters. I hope that wasn't too disingenuous or disappointing. They will both have major roles in the next chapter. 
> 
> Speaking of plot points, though, I'm curious how those have landed such as if my hints were too subtle or obvious or boring.  
> Please let me know what you think. Questions, comments, (gentle) criticisms, below! Feedback fuels my creativity. 
> 
> “Zohhe sorfo zafra ez thir.” = Below land slaves found alive


	4. Flights of freedom and fancy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recap: A week post battle of King's Landing. Jonerys is ruling Together. Tyrion is still incarcerated. Arya is MIA. The North is acrimonious. 
> 
> A little bit of everything. Dreams, dialogue, dragons, discord, visitors, romance and a few easter eggs for chapters to come. Also some minor retconning. Not as loyal to canon. ie: dragons can only be killed by a shot through the eye  
> Trigger warning for mentions of sexual violence. Deep exploration of psyches, trauma and healing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay. This chapter was my first foray into true AU creativity & I may have bitten off more than I can chew.  
> Shout out to carelesslazy who challenged me to transform my one-shot into an AU way back in June. Truly, I would not have considered this project possible if not for the feedback and support of such kind and encouraging readers.

_He is running across the snow, the crispness in the air, invigorating his feral senses and the crunch of hardened snow beneath his paws giving him a sense of grounded weightlessness as he strides with joyful confidence, the steam of his exhales puffing behind him. His brother’s presence beside him is at once familiar and unremarkable, so accustomed is he to roaming together, the two of them, matching in stride, all eight powerful legs plodding along, in a flurry of fur and syncopated rhythm. He roams, the sharpness of pine invigorating him, until he’s drawn, without thought, towards a smokier scent off in the distance. He is following the curiosity of his snout, when his brother leaps at him playfully and they roll together in a practiced scrimmage of yipping and howling as they tumble through the snow. There is joy, only joy and the strength of camaraderie, of shared adventure as their jaws and limbs nip and tussle at one another. They continue playing and running, taking turns leading through the sparsely wooded tundra driven forward by the scent of charred wood and meat and an even more alluring scent of blood.  
  
Soon he is on a cliff edge, on the precipice of a mountain, the scent of a meal heavier but frustratingly inaccessible. He sees his brother raise his snout and joins him in near perfect unison, howls reverberating together, reveling in their combined might. Overhead a screech pierces their shared song. The shadow of impossibly wide wings travels over the stark white land below. A shiver passes through him as the shadow passes over once more._

_“It’s time.” Robb barks calmly. “Go on then.” He wags his tail at Jon._

_“No.” He shakes his head. He wants to stay with his brother. “Let’s go this way, brother.” He asserts boldly and turns to head back down the cliff, towards the forest behind them. Robb lets out a poignant whine._

_“They are waiting for you.” Robb chides him, pointing his snout at the sky. And then Robb lunges at Jon’s tail, nipping it with more aggression than before. They play and tussle but there is a harshness to the game he doesn’t enjoy. A shrill yelp echoes through the air as he tears away from Robb’s razored teeth. He realizes it is the sound of his own pain as he feels the warmth of his blood and sees specks of crimson staining the snow below him. He’s already baring his teeth and snarling, circling around the other wolf. His hair is standing on end. He is furious. They continue to circle. And then Robb lunges. Their limbs are caught in an aptly met dance. Each wolf all instinct and raw power. He fights with all his might, allowing his body to do what it does best, asserting his claws and paws and teeth in all the right places. But before he knows it, he’s pinned down. Robb’s snarling spittle is dripping down on top of him. He hears his own whimper, more out of sadness than out of pain. Why is he doing this?_

_“It’s time for you to go!” Robb snarls again viciously. And then his face softens in slight remorse as he pulls his front two paws off of Jon, before giving him a much gentler nudge with his snout._

_“Go on.” He nods toward the cliff edge. “It’s time.”_

_Jon scrambles to his paws, quickly shaking the wet snow off of his fur, still scared and dismayed at this sudden aggressive betrayal._

_He shakes his head in sadness and hears the winged shrieking off in the distance. It sounds both menacing and strangely alluring. He looks at the sheer cliff edge, knowing there is sure death below but Robb is guarding the way back with rabid devotion. The only way out is off this cliff._

_Finally, with overwhelming despondence, he turns around, tossing his head back to look at Robb sadly before taking a brave and suicidal leap off the edge. For the briefest of moments he is falling. And then just as suddenly, a current of wind catches him under the belly and he is aloft the call of the winged beast sounds more like a song than a warning. He calls out to answer his sibling and spreads his wings, allowing the wind to carry him home._

 

* * *

 

The morning spells have not abated since they began mid-week. For the fourth morning in a row, as the glow of dawn is filtering through the windows, he finds himself sitting on his knees beside her, as has become their new routine. While she purges, he rubs her back and waits thoughtfully as each wave courses through her, wracking her small body. He’s only ever seen piss drunk men be this violently ill and by contrast it seems entirely unearned and unfair that she be required to endure this each and every morning, especially as careful as she has been about her nutrition. He’s watched her make a concerted effort to keep down her breakfasts and eat heartily at dinner and he feels discouraged on her behalf to see such diligence be so aggressively reversed. He can’t help but feel slightly guilty as she wretches until she seems thoroughly wrung dry and leans back sagging against him, exhaustedly. By observing her the last few mornings, he’s learned to wait until her rapid breath decreases before offering her a mug of lemon water. She nods in appreciation, sipping it down cautiously, with a contended murmur.

 

“Is this normal?” He finally asks, genuinely ignorant but curious to women’s conditions. When he tries to remember Lady Stark’s pregnancies he realizes he was only privy to what he could see publically. Dany shrugs her shoulders in response, still steadying her breathing.

 

“It wasn’t like this, last time.” She finally admits, with some reservation. The Dothraki would say it is weakness because she is carrying a girl. “With Rhaego, I was feeling better, by now.” She recalls the welcome resurgence of energy and appetite she’d felt by the time she’d entered her fourth moon. In fact, for a few days she’d truly believed she’d properly turned that corner before the nausea had returned with a vengeance.

 

“It seems to be getting worse.” He comments blithely on the obvious. She shoots him an annoyed look, wiping her damp brow with the back of her hand.  
  
  
“Nonsense.” She dismisses. “It was much worse at Winterfell.” She retorts with brusque honesty. He frowns at this revelation, his face falling as he realizes just how much effort she’d had to undertake to conceal her condition in his home. She sighs tiredly, as she takes in his despondent pout.

 

“In fact, it’s probably the smoke, come to think of it.” The thought dawns on her as she contemplates the similarities. The air quality. After the battle with the knight king, she’d been constantly sick, near unbearably so. No longer relegated to the mornings, her nausea had accompanied her, unremittingly, threatening her composure every moment of the day, relegating her to spend much of her time sequestered indoors with Missandei and their coveted bottles of peppermint oil. At first she’d chalked it up to the literal mountains of rotting corpses everywhere but even and especially after the pyres had been lit, the ubiquitous stench of smoke and death had been utterly relentless, provoking a state of near perpetual nauseated misery. It was this chronic distress that had subtly catalyzed so much of her urgency to leave and recoup at Dragonstone. And indeed, the sickness had abated considerably almost as soon as she’d soared through fresh air atop Drogon.

 

“Perhaps we should get the army maester’s opinion?” He queries good naturedly. She scoffs defensively, picking herself off the floor gingerly and bracing herself against the frame of the bed until the room steadies itself around her.

 

“The Unsullied maester is an expert on eunuchs.” She reminds him, a tone of irritation bordering on condescension lacing her lips. “I’m _fine_.” She insists. Coupled with her frenzied dreams, these morning spells are grating at her stamina and her mood. Each morning requires such a concerted effort of fortitude to endure. She’s strained and exhausted however is habitually disinclined to dwell on discomfort much less admit a sense of weakness.

 

“It will still be some time before Sam arrives.” He continues forth bringing himself to stand beside her, holding the soiled chamber pot in his hands. She bristles at the comment, her frustration is unfettered.

 

“Sam, who abandoned his studies with a single link in his chain? Sir Davos would be more qualified.” She shakes her head derisively, impatient to move on. She begins to cross the room, headed toward a washing basin. He can see he’s not getting anywhere with his suggestions so he turns to set the chamber pot beside the door but persists on calling after her.

 

“Not Sam, I encouraged him to bring along a midwife.” He regrets the comment as soon as he sees her tense. She stills mid-step, a knot of furied distress forming in her gut. She’d been acutely directive about the need for discretion regarding the pregnancy. Under no circumstances are others to know. The moment her previous pregnancy became public knowledge, it put her and Rhaego in peril. Thus, notions of privacy and safety have become unequivocally braided in her mind. It holds that if she can keep her baby a secret, she can keep her baby safe.

 

“You did what?” Her voice is crisp and cold and she doesn’t turn to address him, feeling instantly betrayed.

 

“For Gilly … ” He tries to remedy, quickly. Although he does not share the same clandestine urgency that she does, he’s learned his lessons around secret sharing and is fully committed to guarding this, for her.  “I believe she’s a bit farther along than you.” He murmurs, feeling cautious but hopeful. In actuality, he’s very much looking forward to them arriving, that he may share his mutually impending fatherhood with his best friend. Dany, exhales with some relief, realizing he’s kept his promise and wills herself to relax her readiness to expect betrayal.

 

“Dany” He murmurs, dejectedly. “I’m just worried.” He walks up behind her, placing a cautious but firm hand on her hip. She sighs and pauses under his touch. The magnitude of his ignorance around these matters of women’s mysteries fills him with an impotent anxiety. His only academic point of reference are some very rudimentary lessons of Maester Wolken’s. He is immensely grateful for Ygritte’s crude but helpful edification about moon times but he nonetheless feels wholly inadequate in his knowledge and skill around reproduction especially as it relates to easing Dany’s obvious suffering. And no, he’s not convinced she’s not just bucking up to save face. He shifts more closely behind her, sliding a hand from her hip to her front, pressing his palm firmly atop the small swell below her belly button, cupping her there.

 

Watching her suffer consecutive mornings tears him up inside. All he wants, desperately is to know that she and their baby are healthy and safe but he has no metric by which to guide him. He transmits all that worry and love into his embrace. He presses his forehead to the back of her head, angling his mouth to her ear exhaling softly, tickling her neck. She sighs and leans back into his arms, accepting his care.  
  
Under his tender and confident touch, waves of understanding and compassion sear through her. Drogo never spent mornings with her, never fretted about her condition except to the degree that their child was threatened by assassins. The mundane discomforts of her pregnancy went unshared and unnoticed by him. The Dothraki women who had accompanied her during her last pregnancy had never coddled her outright either. They’d simply educated her on the nature of her discomforts, served her the foods and teas to encourage healthy growth and expected her to ride every morning regardless. This level of intimate concern and attention is unfamiliar to her and frankly, more uncomfortable to receive than the nausea to which she is now accustomed.

 

“Thank you.” She murmurs with genuine gratitude and turns around reaching her arms around his neck to peck a sweet kiss to his nose before disentangling herself. “The Dothraki women always said each babe is an untamed steed.” She smiles, reassuringly yet he frowns confusedly. “Meaning every pregnancy is different.” She edifies and shrugs still trying to minimize her experience. “Besides, I’m no maid any longer.” She self-deprecates with a grin, insinuating her age is a factor in her discomfort. He shakes his head unconvinced, a corner of his mouth upturned, yet still dubious while he searches for a compromise.  
  
“Perhaps we can summon the Dothraki women from Dragonstone, then.” He offers a hopeful alternative. “To support you through this.” He earnestly believes the idea is sound as there are several hundred women still waiting on the island. If Dany doesn’t want a maester’s help, surely she can receive it from women she trusts. Yet she doesn’t respond the way he hoped she would. Instead her face takes on a sorrowful grimace.

 

“Perhaps.” She murmurs distantly as she turns her attention back to the washing basin. “I’m just not ready for anyone to know yet.” She speaks with vulnerable honesty, her voice quietly pained. He knows better than to push her now so he acquiesces reluctantly.

 

“Alright.” He nods. “I understand.” He concedes, though in truth, he does not understand at all.  
  
“Although, a ride to Dragonstone might be nice …” She rinses her face and scrubs her teeth as she forges innovatively forward. The thought of spending time with Drogon, her sweet wild boy, fills her with a sense of unmatched fortitude and she smiles at the memory of linking with him so thoroughly she’s not sure where her human body ends and his steaming scales begin. This is the exact opposite idea of rest and safety that Jon has in mind and he balks immediately at the thought of her mounting that dragon again, and of being deliberately vulnerable to archers below. He still feels a pang of irredeemable remorse remembering her fall during the battle at Winterfell.

 

“I meant a raven, we can send a raven.” He hurriedly offers a correction to his plan. But Dany has already latched onto her own idea and is several steps ahead. She is dreaming of soaring through the sky, all fire and raw power while inhaling the clean crispness of altitude, in unfettered freedom. He waits reluctantly, with knots building in his gut and when she finally spins around, he is devastated by how irrevocably excited she appears. The sallowness of her sickness has been replaced with the shine of hope and he’s certain he won’t be able to talk her out of whatever ill-advised plan she’s concocted as a result of his impetuousness.  
  
“Jon, I think you’re right.” She positively beams at him. “I do believe the smoke is making me unwell and the fresh air will do us good.” She pats her belly affirmatively. “A ride with Drogon is exactly what I need.” He sees the determined gleam in her lavender eyes and is not sure how he’s managed to make this worse for himself.  
  
“All the way to Dragonstone?” He asks, weakly. She pauses to consider this seriously.

 

“Perhaps it is a bit far.” She agrees, much to his relief. And then immediately reconsiders. “Though I do think we can make it there and back in a day.” Her eyebrows flash with ambitious excitement. “Would you be willing to rule without me for a day?” She smiles so sweetly and with an edge of seductive invitation, he actually takes a step back so he can think clearly. “It will be good to check on Rhaegal.” She continues, stepping even closer to him, bringing a hand to caress his chest. And on this matter he cannot disagree.  
  
Rhaegal had remained pitifully curled up in one of the deeper caves when they’d left for the battle on King’s Landing. The spear from the scorpion strike had slid just between his scales, burrowing a deep and excruciating wound. When he’d visited him, it had not been without fear, for the amount of agony and fury that emanated from the dragon’s core reverberated across the island and into every cell in Jon’s body. He had approached the cavern with tremendous caution and empathy and upon entering was nearly overwhelmed to feel the dragon’s misery in his own bones. He’d identified with the pain, so similar in quality to when he’d been stabbed - fury and agony, betrayal and anguish all indistinguishably molten together. When he’d offered up that experience through his thoughts, Rhaegal had responded with ardent gratitude. And yet the dragon was too ill tempered to caress or bond with as his wound had been far from healed. Daenerys had assured him that Rhaegal would recoup, with time, as Drogon had when he’d been speared various times. Nonetheless, his current disconnection and concern for Rhaegal is powerfully motivating. It’s not quite powerful enough to encourage her to ride away, however.

 

“Alright.” He nods. “Let’s talk it over with the council.” He feigns agreement while holding her hand to his chest and feeling proud of his quick wittedness even as her face falls slightly. She narrows her eyes at him skeptically and purses her lips while he tries to emulate a supportive smile.

 

“You don’t want me to go!” She exclaims, accusing him of his precise intentions but her eyebrows are so dramatically aghast he can’t suppress the genuine smile that creeps on his face at her adorable expression.  
  
“Of course not.” He grins, pulling her tighter to him even as she swats his chest while attempting and failing to form a convincing frown. “I want. You. Right here.” He enunciates each word with a crisp husky brogue, leaning his mouth closer to hers with each syllable, as he cups her bottom with his free hand and pulls her tight against him, greeting her with a forward sway of his pelvis. She blinks at him, a close mouthed grin peeking out from her face as she tries to resist his seductive charm.

 

“You can’t be serious.” She cocks her head to the side skeptically. “You’re still in the mood for a go, after all that you just saw?” He shrugs, pretending to be utterly unbothered by the unpleasantness of her sickness. She’s unconvinced.

 

“Nothing you do could make me want you any less.” He says seriously, while also flirtatiously sliding his hand up to the small of her back, tracing up her spine. She shivers under his caress but remains quietly reserved, studying him with tender focus, in contemplation of the subtle profundity of his words. 

 

“You’re an odd man, Jon Snow.” She finally delivers quietly, her eyes alight with a solemn curiosity.

 

“That’s King Aegon to you.” He volleys dryly and much to his relief, sees her instantly crack into an eye rolling grin. He leverages this opportunity to lean into the crook of her neck with his bearded chin and nip at her playfully. She squeals under the tickling scratchiness and he softens his approach, laying down a swift trail of kisses up to her ear. He feels her back arch and then her shoulders soften under his touch as he pulls her tighter, bringing his full lips to ear lobes.

 

“Good thing you’re so normal, Daenerys Stormborn.” He growls before darting his tongue inside the rim of her ear. She half groans half guffaws under this combination of ministrations before surrendering to unmitigated mirth as he continues to tickle her with his nose and chin. It is such a gloriously effervescent miracle – her laughter. The sound of her joy ringing out like sparkling bells, brings him a sense of utterly triumphant purpose. This is what he’s willing to fight, scheme and compromise for - for the persistent honor of sharing in her quotidian happiness.

 

* * *

 

Aegon is not wrong. Absolutely no council member thinks it’s a good idea for Dany to ride away on Drogon for a day. And that’s without the added information that she’s with child. It’s simply too soon, the city too unstable. Kovarro and Greyworm generously offer their military perspectives very respectfully contradicting the impracticality of Daenerys’ idea but Ellaria impatiently rolls her eyes while Davos studies the Queen curiously. Although Daenerys quickly cedes to the advice of her military advisors Davos is unsettled by her drive for an obviously irrational pursuit. Meanwhile, Ellaria swiftly re-directs the meeting to her own preferred fixations – the Lannister execution.

 

This is how Ellaria finally forces Jon’s hand - by having pestered about the Lannister execution each and every morning. She’s still astonishingly skinny and weak, not quite steady on her feet but that doesn’t deter her enthusiastic participation in the council meetings and she’s particularly passionate about eliminating the last Lannister. Jon’s deferment hasn’t been intentional, at least not initially. It has been easy to avoid returning to the makeshift dungeon, easy to prioritize the myriad of much more urgent duties at hand. He’s procrastinated by joining his troops every day in the patrolling of the city and by searching for Arya every evening. But on this morning, Ellaria is not having it and with the continued grumbling of his troops wanting to return home, Jon finally cedes to his responsibility. He leaves the council meeting morosely and approaches the cellar turned cell heavy footed. It has only been a week since they last dialogued but whereas Tyrion’s world has remained ashen and four walled, Aegon’s entire universe has expanded and re-assembled with new meaning. Whereas he had previously joined Tyrion out of sympathetic camaraderie, now he joins him as his stolid executioner. He wills himself to remain impassive. This man has been a respected friend. Alas, the memory of his affection for Tyrion only ignites his fury at the man’s betrayal. The bonds that tie the Targaryens are subtly and continuously braiding but already, any threat or betrayal against Daenerys feels deeply personal to Jon. That mere days ago, Tyrion encouraged him to kill her, rakes against his sensibilities like a blade against flint. He exhales deeply, before entering, trying to bring forth his most neutral expression. He has avoided this interaction long enough. It will be what it is.

 

“Still no wine?” Tyrion asks in a tone so irksomely monotonous, Jon already feels his knuckles twitch in aggressive irritation. He stretches his fingers and walks forward anyway, his face stony.

 

“No.” He responds, though the answer is obvious. He feels as grim and taciturn as ever as he approaches Tyrion whose beard is longer and slightly more unkempt but who is otherwise sitting in precisely the same place he’d last found him. The room is stale and sour as rancid ale and it simply amplifies Jon’s comparable mood. He tries and fails to transmute his dour animosity into impassivity.

 

“You made your choice.” Tyrion acknowledges resolutely without a trace of contempt eyeing Jon’s incoming demeanor and accurately ascribing motives for it.

 

“There was never another option.” Jon asserts boldly, unblinkingly and Tyrion’s eyes widen, slightly impressed as Jon stands in front him, feet planted widely apart, with a posture of conviction.

 

“Of course not.” Tyrion remarks nodding. “You are still Ned’s son, in spirit if not in blood.” He watches thoughtfully as Jon tenses before sighing discomfited. Jon is replete with conflicting thoughts and feelings, somewhat unsure how to proceed in this interrogation. “Are you here to escort me to my execution, then?” Tyrion asks calmly, assuming the task of initiating conversation. Jon sighs grimly and shakes his head.

 

“Not yet.” He replies and looks pitifully at Tyrion. “I’ll be the one beheadin’ ya.” He continues, swallowing the bile of acrimony and remorse that comes with the statement.

 

 “Beheading?” Tyrion observes him quizzically. Jon nods.

 

“Sends a better message.” He finally relents in explanation. Tyrion takes a moment for that to sink in and then chuckles deprecatingly. Jon frowns at him inquiringly as his laughter increases in volume. Tyrion shakes his head.

 

“Perhaps she’s not wrong.” Tyrion sneers. “Perhaps we truly are tethered to inevitable destinies.” He looks up at Jon’s confused scowl. “I murdered my father and crossed the world over to escape this very fate. Now I am back exactly where I started. Awaiting to be beheaded for treason.” He nods in grim acceptance. “Well, I’m glad it will be you and not the Mountain.” He asserts more calmly. His practiced ambivalence grates at Jon’s stoicism, like a whetstone. Jon forcefully swallows, reticent to unleash the bevvy of anger that will surely follow his line of questioning.

 

Jon’s lingering silence is enough for Tyrion, who could never tolerate too much of it. He opens his mouth to speak but Aegon takes a step forward, raising his hand in a motion of silence.

 

“Were you aware of the wildfire caches?” He jumps right in. This has been an area of contention among the council and between him and Dany, in particular. Their respective memories of that day have been so disparate, it’s been challenging to integrate a well-rounded truth, much less agree on solutions. She insists she (mostly) kept her burning spree to the visible armies beneath her, but the ground wreckage does not corroborate her narrative. The many witness accounts of a devastating green fire have sparked curiosity and discord among the council and surviving citizens. To add to the confusion, yesterday’s much awaited storm, blanketed the city with a trio of rain, sleet and snow, yet there are still segments sizzling with evanescent green flames, seemingly impervious to the element of water.  
  
Tyrion sighs and twiddles his thumbs together.

 

“I knew of them, theoretically.” He answers with measure. Jon shifts his stance, already impatient with the imp’s practiced equivocation.  
  
“What the fuck does that mean?” He hears the hostile impatience in his tone and reprimands himself for the outburst. It is not kingly. Tyrion notices as well, eyes narrowing in calculating observation as he sits up straighter before clarifying.

 

“It means I knew my sister had been manufacturing it; I didn’t know if or where she was storing it.” Tyrion’s response is measured but truthful.

 

“You knew she was manufacturing it.” Jon repeats slowly and with disdain, shaking his head disgustedly. “And failed to mention this _at all_.” It is not a question but an affirmation of Tyrion’s willful, calculated neglect.

 

“Wildfire is exceedingly challenging and costly to create, much less transport.” Tyrion defends himself. “It seemed unlikely Cersei could have produced any more than what she utilized to destroy the Sept of Baelor.” Even as he speaks it out loud, he recognizes the defense is both paltry and self-incriminating.

 

“Ser Davos tells me you’re familiar with the substance.” Jon glares at him accusatorily, carefully controlling his growing ire. Tyrion swallows.  
  
“It may not even have been Cersei’s.” Tyrion counters. Jon scowls at him in silent question.  
“But remnants from your grandfather. Jamie told me the Mad King buried caches throughout the city, so determined was he to burn it down rather than let it fall into Baratheon hands. We excavated many gallons, but it’s entirely possible more were left behind.” He posits a theory that more closely approximates exoneration.  

 

“Your brother knew about these caches, as well?” Jon latches onto that name. Tyrion cringes internally and remains uncommonly silent. Jon takes a step forward and proceeds with a tone heavily laced with threatening disdain.

  
“You knew about this secret, lethal weapon, kept the knowledge hidden from Daenerys and the council and then illicitly released the very man who murdered her father back into the fray.” He pauses, leveling the aptly summarized indictment at Tyrion before continuing. “Were you conspiring with the kingslayer the entire time?” Aegon accuses with venomous disdain.  
  
Tyrion’s eyes widen, a shadow of genuine fear and remorse crossing his marred visage.

 

“No.” He shakes his shaggy head and lowers it with dutiful humility. “No.” He repeats with pathetic earnestness such that Aegon would be remiss to not believe him.  
  
“What other secrets did Jaime disclose to you?” He asks plainly. Tyrion furls his brow and pauses to ponder his answer, his last conversations with his brother reverberating through him like echoing bells.

 

_“All the worst things she’s ever done she’s done for her children.”  
  
_

_“I was there the night her father killed Chelsted. What you are doing is no more noble or less treasonous.”_

_“Your Queen will execute you for this.”_

 

“He warned me I’d be executed for releasing him and gave his word he’d try to convince Cersei to surrender and flee.” Tyrion opts for radical honesty, having nothing else to lose. “I loved my brother more than anyone in the world.” He shrugs again, utterly unregretful. “Like you said, love is the death of duty.” Jon squints at him, listening raptly to this confession.

 

“You intended for him to help Cersei escape?” Jon asks. Tyrion shakes his head slightly, the question so moot he’s uninspired to answer.

 

“Does it really matter now?” He complains.

 

“Yes.” Jon replies, the frigidity in his tone jarring Tyrion to alertness. “It does.” Tyrion raises his hands haplessly. Aegon is glaring daggers.

 

“Evil as she was, she was still my sister. And Jaime’s love was all that softened her, humanized her. I hoped …” He shakes his head regretting his train of thought.

 

“You hoped what?” Jon persists.

 

“I did, I hoped he could convince her to flee. For the sake of their unborn child.” Tyrion admits. At this, Jon bristles visibly and recoils, narrowing his eyes. “Of course it was treason. I knew I was forfeiting my life.” Tyrion continues. “But they were my family.” He excuses haplessly and then resumes as though absolving himself. “And they died together nonetheless. At least they had that solace.” He comments with grim acceptance remembering how he found them, the last of his family, his House, demolished together, in each other’s arms.

 

“What of Varys?” Jon continues, his resolve increasing.

 

“What about him?” Tyrion inquires off-handedly, still floating in the reverie of his dead siblings.

 

“Did you help him poison her?” Jon’s tone is frigid and poignant. Tyrion’s eyebrows raise and then furl. He closes his mouth and purses his lips, shaking his head, bemused.

 

“No …” He scowls, his confusion genuine enough and then a grimace of concern mars his scarred face. “… Is she alright?” His authentic worry for Daenerys betrays his own internal contradictions. This only serves to further anger Jon who narrows his eyes, glaring.

 

“She’s fine now. No thanks to you.” He glowers at Tyrion who accepts the anger.

 

“I deserve that.” He admits, his own self-deprecation frustrating Jon even further.

 

“A fortnight together at Dragonstone and you truly didn’t know?” Jon probes skeptically. His question intentionally open ended, seeking clues into more than just the poison. Tyrion simply shakes his head.

 

“No. I’ve committed many betrayals, Jon, but poison is not one of them.” He absolves himself honestly, raising both his hands by his head. “Not my style.” He mutters, in dour jest and contemplation.

 

“Were you even paying attention?” Jon shakes his head disgustedly while Tyrion regards his anger thoughtfully. “She was barely eating!” Jon’s pitch increases in measure with Tyrion’s perceived nonchalance. “Did you ever pause to wonder why?” His ire at Tyrion’s neglect an accurate reflection of his own anger towards himself for similarly neglecting her.

 

To his credit, Tyrion keeps his mouth shut, though his eyes travel distantly, in reassessment of Daenerys’ and his own comportment during those weeks at Dragonstone. He recalls her distraught and disheveled demeanor, her gaunt, sickly appearance, remembers how he feared for her mental health but did not consider her physical status.  
  
“I suppose I believed her to be grieving …” He mutters thoughtfully, his eyes still distant as his mind quickly assimilates new information to past circumstances. “What was he poisoning her with?” Tyrion asks curiously. Jon doesn’t know and wouldn’t tell him if he did. He equivocates flatly.

 

“You failed her as hand.” Jon hisses. Tyrion snorts.

 

“You could not be more right.” He agrees. “I thought I could guide her …”

 

“Perhaps she didn’t need your guidance.” Jon interrupts angrily. “Perhaps she needed your protection.” His ire grows while Tyrion simply nods in tired acceptance.

 

“I’m glad she has yours then.” Tyrion nods again. “And your love.” He lays this down un-ironically but Jon squints his eyes in anger nonetheless.

 

“Fuck off.” He spits through a clenched jaw and similarly clenches his fist. Tyrion narrows his eyes curiously at this obvious cord that has been struck. “I _do_ love her.” Jon spits, accusatorily and defensively. Tyrion nods carefully.

 

“I know.” He murmurs calmly. Jon’s infatuation with the Queen has been inalienably obvious for near beyond a year.

 

“You don’t know what love is.” Jon contradicts fervently. Tyrion arches an eyebrow, intrigued.

 

“Perhaps not.” He muses stoically.

 

“You said so yourself – you murdered your own lover.” Jon glares at him despicably. “That’s not love, that’s cowardice.”  Tyrion’s eyes narrow ever so slightly, irked by the insult. He moves to stand belabored slightly by the task.

 

“And I suppose _not_ killing your lover, but rather installing her - an inflammable and unconscionable tyrant, on the throne - is brave and honorable, then?” Tyrion takes a step forward, his tone needling at Jon, questioning his motives. Jon holds his ground but internally he’s momentarily frozen. Tyrion takes another step forward and appraises Jon deliberately. “Perhaps you’re more like Rhaegar than meets the eye.” His tone is equanimous but his eyes are sharp. “More apt with your sword than with sense.” He glances at Jon’s crotch actively insinuating his double entendre.

 

Jon’s fists clench at his sides. He bites the inside of his mouth until he tastes the familiar copper flavor of blood, digs his short fingernails into the palms of his hand, wills himself to stand planted two feet on the ground instead of lunging for the imp’s neck like he’s feeling inclined to do. Every frayed thread of insecurity has been snagged and brought to the surface and he’s too raw to understand the complex ways in which Tyrion is playing with his mind. But he’s at least disciplined enough to stand still. He narrows his eyes.

 

“Jealous, imp?” He counters a saucy deadpan at Tyrion whose mouth actually drops open before letting out a caustic laugh.

 

“Well done, Snow.” Tyrion bows his head in mock salute. “Of course, how can I argue with that? It must be my jealousy. She is arrestingly beautiful, isn’t she? And disarmingly charming. I must have spent these last few years pining away for the Silver Queen, betraying her only when my jealousy couldn’t be contained.” He rolls his eyes at Jon sarcastically. “Be more clever than that, Snow. So you’ve been fucking her for a few moonturns, I’ve been by her side for years. Actually, conversing with her.” He pauses, condescendingly. “While others have had her bed, I’ve had her ear. I’ve been advising, guiding, serving her, not out of confused lust, but because I truly believed in her.” He is earnest and avidly defensive and so full of contradictions this imp.

 

“Until you betrayed her.” Jon glares acerbically, impatient and livid and rather unsure how this man can simultaneously insult him, demean Daenerys and defend himself with such finesse.

 

“Indeed. Until my belief in her went up in flames like this city. Until her madness for power overshadowed all else.” He asserts remorselessly.

 

“She’s not mad.” Jon defends. A heavy pause builds between them as Tyrion observes Jon’s incited and defensive posture.

 

“I envy your conviction.” Tyrion finally admits honestly. “We both saw what she did. Her father would have been proud.” He lets that statement linger before continuing. “Wildfire or no, she completed precisely what he prearranged over 20 years ago – the demolition of this city.” Tyrion pauses and his voice softens noticeably. “You don’t think it breaks my heart to see what she’s become?” His voice cracks with raw emotion. Tyrion shakes his head in painful remembrance of watching her take her first flight, perched atop Drogon, white dress to match her hair, billowing out like an angel soaring through the cerulean Mereenese sky. His brows furl with the pain of wonder turned cavernous disappointment. “I’ve watched her grow like her dragons. From a magical fledgling to an outright monster.” He lands the indictment with such suave certainty it takes a moment for the insult to register. Before Jon can respond with violence Tyrion bows his head and continues with a perfunctory humility. “What makes you believe her thirst for power has been quenched?” Tyrion posits with intentional but earnest provocation.

 

Jon stands un-answering, his nostrils flaring defensively. His fists clenching and unclenching. There is a muted but unmistakable storm brewing inside him. He knows well enough that he’s being provoked but doesn’t quite have the skill to outmaneuver Tyrion emotionally. The storm begins to churn with resounding thunder. He is confused and dismayed but beyond that, in his body he feels a current surge through his veins. A current like alcohol, or lightning or like fire itself, galloping forward eagerly, ready to consume and destroy. Strangely, it is a sobering sensation. He feels his exhale leave him with more tranquility than he could have hoped. His eyes narrow as the words leave his mouth.

 

“We will rule together.” Jon finally admits proudly, albeit naively. Tyrion’s eyes widen in understanding.

 

“Is that what she told you?” Tyrion inquires curiously and with an edge of skepticism.

 

“It’s what I agreed to.” Jon defends, too honestly.

 

“I see.” Tyrion responds glibly. “And you are now amenable to ruling?” He asks, an eyebrow raised. Jon simply huffs quietly, not willing to admit he’s still not particularly inclined towards it.  “Amenable to her persuasion, then.” Tyrion comments not incorrectly and smiles sympathetically as he appraises Jon’s discomfort at the lurid insinuation. He takes a bold and reckless step forward. “How very Targaryen of you. You know, burning people alive was her father’s preferred aphrodisiac. Did her inferno mollify or arouse you?” Jon gapes at him in horrified astonishment, blushing in shame despite himself. Tyrion nods appraising him slowly, and murmurs with tenuous triteness while shrugging. “Ah, both. It appears Aerys would be proud of you both.” He shakes his head with despondent disdain, as though he too is coming to his own horrified understandings.

 

“She’s not her father.” Jon responds weakly with his practiced answer. _Nor am I._  
  
“No, she’s much deadlier.” Tyrion lays this down assiduously. “He was called the mad King because he was a paranoid zealot for fire. Your grandfather, like your aunt, also burned or banished everyone who opposed him. Whereas Aerys had pyromancers, Dany has Drogon.” Tyrion, emboldened by his soliloquy continues to step closer to Jon, closing the space between them.  
  
“You won’t be able to hold her in check. You won’t be able to guide her. I thought I could. I thought she’d listen to me. I was wrong.” Tyrion finishes sighing deeply in a tone both self-debasing and gently warning as he willfully admits his biggest sense of failure is not being able to control her. Aegon’s aversion is piqued.

 

“You _were_ wrong. Wrong to betray and undermine her. To believe she needed checking and controlling instead of care.” He is wearing his emotions bare, whereas Tyrion is calculating his responses.

 

“She is more intelligent than she is beautiful, your aunt.” Tyrion admonishes him. “It is precisely the underestimation of her ruthless wit that has allowed her to become the tyrant that she is now.” He elucidates, emotionless.

 

“She is not a tyrant.” Jon defends instinctively, but the words lack proper conviction.

 

“And you’re not an orphaned prince, desperate for belonging.” Tyrion lays down the words gently but they are sharp as Valyrian steel and flammable as flint.

 

Jon feels the wounded fury in him ignite, sees a flash of flames in his vision before he realizes he’s taken a lunging step toward Tyrion, who has actually cowered at Jon’s impulse. At this realization, he inhales deeply, trying to calm the fevered buzzing through his veins, and the hungry hum reverberating through his skull seeking retaliation. He plants his feet and wills himself to quiet the instinct to take Tyrion’s neck in his bare hands and squeeze. As he breathes he notices the heat of the wild current coursing through him begin to settle like the beat of dragon’s wings once aloft. He allows himself to be carried higher as a torrid and yet detached clarity pumps through him. His spine straightens as his brow softens his frown. Tyrion watches rapt at the transformation occurring in front of him.  
  
“That may have been true when we met.” Aegon hears an eerie aloofness in his tone. “But now I am the King.” This statement clamors with the authority of his ancestors. “And a King belongs not to himself but to the realm. What drives me is not desperation but determination to protect and serve my people, my family and my Queen. You, Lord Tyrion, have willfully put all in jeopardy. And for that I sentence you to death.” He turns to leave, brisk and certain. He pauses at the door before knocking for the guards.

 

“Morning after tomorrow, Lord Tyrion. Good day.”

 

* * *

 

King Aegon slams the door behind him, with more force than he had intended and scours the hallway with a swift wolf’s pace. He feels concomitant emotions coursing through him. Clarity and satisfaction combine with a confounded bevy of a storm brewing within him.

He takes the steps two at a time and finds himself in an empty area of the keep, pulse pumping to a perturbed tempo, momentarily unsure of what to do with his kinetic distemper. Then, on instinct, he moves with long strides toward the Dothraki camp.

 

  
  
“ _Qoy qoy.”_ He calls out. A few bloodriders greet him with muted but authentic enthusiasm. He’s endeared himself to them since he rode Rhaegal and rained fire down in their defense.  
  
“ _Kahl Naqis Ver.”_ A rider responds with good humored respect. Jon’s not quite sure what it means but all the Dothraki have taken to referring to him as such.

  
When he asks to borrow a horse, they oblige with extroverted kindness and although he does not strictly command them, several insist on joining with him.  
  
And then he’s off, more swiftly than he’s allowed himself to ride since he last went hunting. As if in commiseration, the bloodriders let out a hooping cry as they follow him and ride beside him. The small crew of warriors tramples through the near empty streets. Since yesterday’s storm, most citizens have taken to huddling in their shelters or cuddling around small campfires. This allows for their wanton riding through cluttered stone. Aegon just needs to get out of here. He feels residually stifled by the stagnation of Tyrion’s cell. He feels confined in this city even as torn open as it is. He’s vaguely aware of the direction he’s moving. It’s out. Away. Beyond the demolished walls, away from this cobblestone wreckage and into some semblance of wildness.

 

_“Never forget what you are; the rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor, and it will never be used to hurt you.”_

 

Tyrion’s long ago message to him, echoes distantly as he tramples across the stone streets in the direction of the Kingswood, the words reverberate with new meaning as he assimilates into his new name, his identity, his lineage.

 

_“Burning people alive was her father’s preferred aphrodisiac.”_

He shakes his head in disgust, trying to shake the conflicted confusion as he trods along. He tries to push away the memory of her approaching him after Varys’ execution. Tries to disentangle the heat of their lovemaking the night after her conquest. That was different. The imp was fucking with him, surely. Surely. And anyway, where the fuck is his little sister? Her sudden appearance and just as sudden disappearance has been an ever growing source of distress. The fears and concerns surrounding her absence serve as an ever present rumble in his mind like the interminable crash of waves against sea walls - never waning. He tries to shake his Tyrion related frustrations and toss them behind him while funneling his tension into an unrelenting focus and determination to locate Arya.  
  
The miniature horde tramples through the city with a bold recklessness, Aegon leading the way, driven by instinct, fury and the rowdiness of internal kinetic conflict.  
  
The aroma of damp pine and moist earth alerts his animal senses as they enter the Kingswood. This terrain is new to them all, the climate and topography irreconcilably foreign to both the Dothraki as well as to Aegon. They all revel in the newness of this experience and are characteristically raucous about their exploration. Flocks of birds shriek away and small animals scatter about, underfoot the horse bound party. Quickly, they all realize that they must diminish their speed. The Dothraki horses are unaccustomed to the thick fauna, soft earth and braided roots of the forest floor. Thus their galloping bedlam quiets responsibly in adaption to their surroundings. They proceed as a group, sensibly alert as any predator to the subtleties of scent, sound and ambient atmosphere. It is only here, surrounded by fresh trees and the crisp blatant aromas of nature’s fecundity, that Aegon begins to reflect on how much his olfactory instincts have been polluted, muted and warped in that smoke ash filled city. Perhaps it _is_ the air making Dany sick. The air here feels so rich in aliveness, by contrast.  
  
His body, although heighted in alertness, relaxes at the caress of such rich and complex scents. The Dothraki, also, seem to become more tranquil away from stone walls. The moment is fleeting, however. Just as their noses have begun to embrace the absence of ash, the scent of woodsmoke wafts toward them. One by one, they all notice. Aegon watches as the men begin to make hand gestures and point toward the direction of the smell coming from a deeper place in the forest. He nods and the group fans out. They are no longer on a joy ride, this team of warriors now has a deliberate mission. They are hunting.

The hair on the back of his neck prickles as they make their way, as quietly as possible through the thickening trees. When they have approached close enough to see human tracks, he narrows his eyes at the evidence. He is about to dismount to analyze the tracks when he notices a bloodrider raise his arm in a hand gesture and nearly in unison, the curdling unified shrieks of the dozen riders amplifies menacingly while deceptively giving the impression of a much larger horde. Aegon joins his voice to the melee and spurs his horse on, in the general direction of smoke’s origin.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Jon sees a flash of movement as a Dothraki swings his arahk. He hears a yelp as a body thuds to the ground. A few more screams spur him forward and shortly, they are all trampling in an intimidating circle around a campsite.  
  
The small group of people who were not felled in the attack run towards the center of the circle and huddle together. A man in colorful but tattered clothes is holding his arms in a gesture of mercy, earnestly screaming for amnesty. The horses continue circling in their familiar trampling formation, until Aegon, pulls out of the formation and brings his horse to a slowing halt. A few bloodriders let out disapproving side glances but they too slow down.

  
The cowering group are of mixed gender and ages and Aegon quickly realizes, are relatively unarmed. He feels a sprinkle of remorse for having attacked them unawares as the man with his arms up continues to yell, “Mercy, M’Lords. Mercy.”  
  
Aegon raises his hand in a gesture to acknowledge and quiet the man, while intentionally making a motion to re-sheath his sword. He is the only one who rode without an arahk. He looks up, hopeful to encourage the Dothraki to similarly lower their weapons. They do not oblige.  
  
“Are ya citizens of King’s Landing?” He asks in what he hopes is an authoritative yet non menacing tone. He still doesn’t realize how much subtle authority his voice naturally reveals.

 

“No, M’lord. We’re travelers.” The man who is speaking for the group, answers. “Jesters and musicians, mostly.”

 

“Where are you traveling from?” Aegon queries.

 

“Stormsend, M’lord.” The man looks around at the circle of Dothraki with trepidatious curiosity. Aegon pauses thoughtfully.  
  
“That’s not a short journey. What brings you to these parts?” Aegon asks with some mild concern. He notices that several members of the group share nervous glances.

 

“We’re humble artists, M’lrd. Tryna steer clear of conflict and bring some revelry to the common folk where we can.” The man answers with a strained cheerfulness. Aegon is contemplating the strategic nature of this answer when the man speaks up.

 

“Sir?” He asks with practiced humility. “To what army do you all belong?” The small group of people huddled behind him, have begun to slowly straighten and listen with attentiveness. Aegon pauses thoughtfully. Before he can trip over his thoughts, he answers with the only answer that feels true.

 

“The Targaryen army.” The four syllables leave his mouth, with a satisfying cadence. He feels subtle tendrils of pride pulse through him The Dothraki may not be his men, strictly speaking, but the dragon banner they serve under, is his banner as well. He notices as several individuals fidget with visible yet subdued discomfort and share several wary glances between them.

 

“I am Aegon Targaryen, IV of his name.” He asserts with more confidence than he’s previously expressed. “I and these men serve the one true Queen – Daenerys Stormborn. Mother of Dragons.” He notices the flashes of confusion, disappointment and fear that pass through the group’s members. A flock of birds elect this time to loudly fly overhead. He looks to the sky and back to the dilapidated crew in front of him, addressing them with a stern clarity.

 

“I’m afraid this forest is not a safe refuge for these are the dragons’ hunting grounds.” He lets that statement settle among them. “Please collect your belongings.” Her orders politely. “We will escort you inside the city walls.”  
  
The Dothraki seem to have followed roughly along with the conversation and open the circle wider so the group can collect themselves. It doesn’t take them long. The campfire had already been stamped out. It seems they had been alerted by the noise and were packing for a swift departure as the warriors had approached them.

 

Several of the bloodriders, grunt and hand motion invitations to the various women in the group and Aegon is surprised when they all agree. When assessing the group he notices a figure that resembles a child in size only and instinctively asks his name. “Warwick sir.” The man answers in a deep voice and Aegon offers him a ride. Warwick the imp, hesitates briefly before reaching up a hand up to allow Aegon to swing him up on his steed.  In a very short time, a quarter of the dozen bloodriders have a woman or child astride with them, while the remaining men follow behind on foot. The independent riders linger for the pedestrian male jesters.  
  


The miniature man atop his horse remains sullenly silent for the majority of the ride. Their proximity is such that they can each breathe in the other’s scent. He really hadn’t thought it through when he’d offered this strange, small, stinky man a ride. The silent awkwardness prevails. They do not comment on the absurdity of them, two strangers, a king and a jester imp sharing a saddle, though Jon can hear two of the Dothraki men taking the piss out of him on their ride back, joking about his love for little men. It is then that he realizes he has picked up more of the language than he thought.

 

It is only when a distance has formed between the groups, as a patch of grey sky opens up with King’s Landing in the distance, does it occurs to Jon to ask one of the cloaked women, the question on his mind. He slows his horse to ride beside Jharro a bloodrider whom he particularly respects. “Ma’m?” He asks. The woman looks at him surprised and blushes at him slightly in her jostling seat. “Have you come across any other travelers in the forest?” He asks her with hope that they’ve had a run in with Arya.

 

“No, M’lord.” She looks regretful at having disappointed him. “Not recently.” She rambles nervously and he nods in gratitude, about to spur his horse ahead when she thinks better of it. “Not since the Baratheon boy.”

 

* * *

Daenerys and Davos are sharing in a contented mutual study in the keep’s library, each perusing and reading quietly, with only the occasional comments between them. Dany is immersed in a parchingly dry tome detailing a millennia of commerce routes and agreements. Without Tyrion available to serve as master of coin, and especially since receiving a concerning raven from the Reach, she has been entrenched in an economics self-study. Davos, on the other hand, is slowly making his way through _Dragonkin, Being a History of House Targaryen from Exile to Apotheosis with a Consideration of the Life and Death of Dragons.*  
  
_

He considers it his duty, as Hand, and frankly as a responsible literate citizen to do his due diligence regarding the history of his monarchs. They are fascinating, the both of them, as individuals, respectively, but learning about their ancestry is proving critically helpful in comprehending them as players within a larger context of time, power and, yes, magic. Reading about this dragon dynasty is certainly shedding light on their strange and unique behaviors such as their aloof, yet intense temperaments and their persistently mystical abilities. It seems Valyrian descendants have expressed these qualities quite consistently across geography and time. Nevermind, their idiosyncratic (this is a brand new word, he’s just learned and enjoys) preference to bed and marry one another. Regarding this subject, there is a small but very intriguing portion describing such ancestral customs and the ways they were eventually syncretized according to Westerosi values. He scans his eyes over this chapter, slowly and with fascination before bringing it to the Queen’s attention.  
  
“This one might be useful to ya, your Grace.” Davos interrupts their comfortable silence catching the Queen’s eye across the table.

 

The two of them have taken to spending time in the library together several afternoons in a row. She is perhaps her least stringently composed in this setting. Day after day he’s watched her become more comfortable sinking into the literature. Today, for instance, after an hour or so, he’d observed as she’d discreetly slipped off her boots and tucked her legs up underneath her in the large chair. He watched as this improved her access to the table and with mild humor, Davos had understood that these tables and chairs had been built for grown men, not for tiny child-sized Queens. Davos has felt cautious around her since he watched her incinerate the city, however this quiet time together has been reminding him of how soft and dainty she can be when not perched atop a dragon, a conqueror’s mission on her mind. The way she ritualistically lays stacks of scrolls according to subject and elegantly organizes her notes, it is hard for Davos to believe she was raised without a Maester to instruct her, though he knows this is true. Here, in the embrace of scrolls and parchment, he watches her settle into this element - her mind full of curiosity and determination to make amends. Each day, she scours the literature, intent on studying subjects that will equip her to rebuild and restore from the wreckage she has caused. Just yesterday, a team of Dothraki were able to locate, clear and restore a structurally collapsed water way that had been blocked – a mission whose success was almost entirely due to Daenerys’ studious attention to architectural plans. This triumph had granted clean, running water to, perhaps thousands of refugees. Upon hearing the successful news, she’d simply sighed in satisfaction and moved on to the next task.

 

Davos, who is still relatively new to reading, notices that his own comprehension and organization are like the sentences he imbibes – still rather stilted and syncopated. He is looking forward to the day when he will be able to read like he rides a horse – with confident strength, if not grace. She, however, is remarkably focused and imbued with unguarded grace when she reads, sometimes tracing dainty fingers underneath letters, other times letting out occasional mewing murmurs, when - he assumes - she reads something poignant. One time, he even heard her gasp in surprise and watched as her eyes raised to meet his bashfully. He has been most amused on the occasions when her silver head has darted up suddenly, a spark in her violet eyes, as she has sprung to her feet with adorable alacrity, to go devotionally searching the shelves for another piece of vital information. These moments have re-endeared him to her. They’d bonded a bit on the road to Winterfell, even more so afterward, as he had been the one to discover her crouched over Ser Jorah’s body weeping on that fateful, frigid dawn. Although he is still, wisely, wary of her, especially as he continues to read more about the darker aspects of her ancestry, he feels a familiar avuncular fondness towards this petite Queen curled up in her chair, silver locks falling over her parchment. She is the same fearsome being whom he witnessed relentlessly burn down a city yet she is also so incredibly kind and gentle with him, offering him such humble attention when he calls her for it, as he is now. He is learning how to accept these enormous contradictions.

 

“How so, Ser Davos?” Daenerys rests her hands on the page and raises her violet eyes at his, sweetly. Receiving her fond and undivided attention still throws him off kilter slightly. He is a married and old man with nary a naughty thought in his head but there is a persistent otherworldliness to this Queen that gives him pause.  
  
He clears his throat. “A chapter here about Targaryen weddin’ customs, yer Grace.” He pushes the book across the table to her and nods, encouraging her to take a look. Instead, she remains still, gaze locked with his, as a subtle but distinguishable blush begins to creep up her face. He watches her swallow slowly and then she responds, still not reaching for the book but giving it a wistfully wayward glance.  
  
“Perhaps another day, Ser Davos. Thank you.” She nods, smiling graciously, her cheeks still pink.  
  
“I’ll just mark it here with this ribbon, then.” He grins and them pretends professional seriousness. “I’ll have it sent down to yer chambers tonight with the other books so you and the King can study it at yer own leisure.” He glances up, grateful to see her soft purple eyes gleaming with defiant amusement.  
  
“Have you always been so bold, Ser Davos?” She bats her eyes at him with a tilt of her chin, evoking a coyly approving mirth. Now it is his turn to blush. “Thank you, but I do believe there are many more pressing matters for the King and I to study before broaching that, ahem, subject.”  
  
As if on a cue, a clamor of angry voices and clanking weapons wafts up the pockmarked castle walls. Both of them remain still in their seats, each directing their attention to the uniquely combative sounds. There is something markedly distinct about these yells, these cries. For a few moments, Daenerys sits primly, hands clasped over the book she’s reading, in quiet attentive discernment and then she stiffens with new awareness. There are women’s voices screaming. In the common tongue. With a swift grace, she stands, still barefooted but for wool socks and hurries to the nearest window. Davos is right behind her. Their vantage point is not ideal but they can see a melee of men, Northmen and Dothraki as well as several Westerosi women, screaming at one another. There are already two or more figures collapsed in bloody heaps.  
  
Daenerys sighs deeply and tilts her head upward as her eyelids close elegantly. Moments later, Drogon’s threatening shriek can be heard overhead. This has the intended effect of diverting and diffusing some of the tension as participants of the discord tremulously look up toward the sound of his incoming form. Her eyes flutter open and she tilts her head to the side, her expression a bit weary and resolute, but for the slight smile of camaraderie she offers him.  
  
“Shall we?” She inquires with a sweet sternness as she sets her hand lightly upon Davos’ wrist and he nods in respectful agreement, noticing how soft and warm her touch is.

 

She calls to the Unsullied guards stationed outside the library, calmly giving instructions in Valyrian as she hastily reaches for her boots. Davos watches curiously as two guards take their leave, briskly marching towards the conflict before she’s finished her lacing. When she stands swiftly, Davos watches as she reaches a hand to the table to steady herself, taking a moment before proceeding. She then nods to him, Queenly demeanor intact and together the two of them, flanked by the remaining Queensguard briskly make their way down the hall toward the racket.  
  
They are several hundred meters away from the entrance to the Keep, Drogon’s sharp screech reverberating into the castle when she suddenly takes a halting step. The guards pause instantly though it is Davos who nearly trips, walking a step or two ahead. When he turns, she has a calm but strange expression on her face.  
  
“My apologies, Ser Davos. I need to use the privy.” She appears incredibly apologetic as she fidgets ever so slightly while smoothing her skirts. Swallowing before exhaling audibly she nods. “Please do address your Northmen. I will join you shortly.” He watches her take a calculated, focused breath, before she offers him an apologetic smile that more resembles a grimace and he takes his cue. Davos turns to leave, obedient and focused, raising his voice into a shouting command as he reaches the top steps of the keep.

 

* * *

Dany walks swiftly to the closest privy and abruptly shuts the door behind her while gagging as the smell of the loo assaults her. She leans her back against the door, steadying herself, squeezing her eyes closed against the vertiginous nausea making the small room sway slightly about her. The sensation had surrounded her subtly as she’d walked through the stone halls. Finally, as she’d approached the entrance to the keep, she’d felt the shimmering in her veins as much as she’d _seen_ it in the muted sunlight. There had been a glimmering sway in the air, like the space above a flame, where light becomes warped like translucent fabric. It was instinct, pure instinct that had brought her to a halt; an embodied memory that had urged her toward the safety of enclosed walls. And now as she presses herself against the door of the loo, she breathes methodically, the warm shimmer pulsing with unwelcome familiarity here far away from the security of a hearth. She exhales slowly to ground herself, bringing her attention to her feet, planted on solid stone. Her heart continues to race as the dizzying sensation ebbs. She rides it out. Finally, she opens her eyes with a deep, grateful exhale. She raises a hand to her brow and realizes she’s covered in a mist of perspiration. What just happened? She shakes her head, willing the last of the shimmer to release her mind and steps forward, pulling up her skirts in frustrated consternation. She chews on her lower lip thoughtfully while she sits down to relieve herself before the pleasant sensation of passing water brings grateful attention back to her body, back to the weight of her womb, to the still subtle babe asserting itself, pressed atop her bladder. She leans into the pleasure of this prosaic moment and resolves to compose herself.

 

When she stands to wash, she makes a mental note to eventually add proper mirrors, oils and flowers (all of which would be of great use to her right now) to these dreary stone privys. Instead, she rinses her face, grateful for the running water and pats at her head, hopeful that her braids remain tightly bound.  
  
When she approaches the top steps of the Red Keep, appraising the conflict below, she is every bit the Dragon Queen once more, composed with her habitually reserved tranquility. No one but Davos is the wiser as her Unsullied remain eternally discreet. Dany pauses at the top step, taking advantage of her positionality to swiftly survey the situation. She appreciates how much yesterday’s storm has cleared the smoke from the sky, utilizing this new visibility to make note of various distant buildings she wants to assess even as she counts the men involved in the conflict, evaluates their military factions and observes body language amongst the disputing parties. Most of the soldiers are still out on their day’s duties, those who are working in the courtyard, have scattered busily to the perimeters of what is, for all intents and purposes, now the Dothraki camp. Who remain, are a relatively small group of centrally located men. She notices and appreciates Davos, right in the thicket, speaking with gentle but definite authority to the ten Northmen whose stances indicate thinly detained hostility. Conversely, the two and half dozen Dothraki are in a relaxed and confident formation opposite the Northmen. What separates the two groups are three dead bodies, who by their size and attire, she recognizes as Northmen. She grimaces with a flicker of dread for the unfortunate and inevitable discord she’s about to enter into. Overhead, Drogon screeches a welcome from his protective perch nearby. The faintest of smiles ghosts her face as his familiar consciousness pulses strongly through her own, imbuing her with his distinct strength and fierce loyalty. The men below look up first to the dragon and then to her as she begins descending the tall steps. She wills herself to remain neutral until she truly knows what transpired but she’s not looking forward to doling out punishment. What she finds particularly curious, are the women, six in total, all dressed in Westerosi attire, all young and attractive, all draped across various bloodriders. Until Drogon had brought their attention to her, two of them had been yelling insults to the NorthMen across the way.  
  
The yelling quiets as she approaches.

 

“I thought she’d be taller.” One woman whispers to another, before Daenerys descends flanked by her Unsullied Queensguard. The women have been watching with skeptical fascination, intrigued at their first up close glimpse of the fabled Dragon Queen. They study her with practiced aesthetic discernment. Her attire alone is impressive as it is expensive. The deep carmine overcoat of her dress, is embellished with embroidered details that clearly required hundreds of hours to stitch. The leather skirts have been dyed artfully such that the inky leather nearly imperceptibly bleeds into a dark crimson. Her posture is both graceful and impeccably militant, accurately descriptive of her ethereal and yet lethal nature. The authoritative click of her boots are the main indication she is not floating down the steps. Her guards suit her, one woman thinks. They too, are slight and graceful with a deadly aura that matches her own. Indeed, she is, rather small to be such an imposing force. Yet, the way the men around them have responded, it’s clear she’s earned it. The Dothraki, with all their boisterous bravado, stand at quiet, respectful attention awaiting her descent. The grumbling Northmen, also quiet, though with what appears more like resentful cowering. One woman squints slightly as she nears, noticing details. Not only is the Queen tiny, she’s otherwise unadorned. Despite the small fortune she’s wearing in her attire, only a single humbly pearled ring garnishes her small hands. The only crown on her head is made of her intricate silver braids. And by the gods, her hair is strangely iridescent, silver with a hint of gold, like moonglow, she thinks. This Queen is, indeed, regal, stunningly beautiful but not at all ostentatious. The women take their cues from the men around them and refrain from any more whispers as she approaches deliberately across the immense courtyard.  
  
The silence is thick as a porkbelly, when she finally comes to a halt in front of the group. Her guards form a protective formation in eerily precise unison. Dany stands, feet comfortably apart and clasps her hands in front of her. The sharp twang of fresh blood mingled with the scent of fecal matter smarts her throat, nearly re-activating her gag reflex. With practiced discipline, she breathes gently and doesn’t betray her dilemma as she makes poignant momentary eye contact with every single member present. When she lingers subtly on one, particularly young girl, the girl blushes and looks away.  
  
There is an uncomfortable pause before Daenerys speaks. It takes her a prolonged moment to remember Missandei will not be announcing her. But nobody else knows this, so the silence just seems foreboding.

 

“Greetings.” She affirms to the small crowd, keeping her composure appropriately stoic. She starts with her left.

 

“Qoy Qoy.” She nods, acknowledging her Dothraki, with respect. They all raise their arahks and shout “Khaleesi.” The women in their midst gape wide eyed at this display and she can see the Northmen squirm out of the corner of her eye.  
  
She turns toward them next. “Ser Davos.” She nods, with what nearly approximates a smile. “Your grace.” He offers in return. It is at this moment, he realizes, he ought to have announced her moments earlier and feels a pang of regret at the absence of the gentle Naathian advisor. He’ll need to clarify his duties at the council meeting in the morning.  
  
“Gentlemen.” Dany nods, towards the Northmen in the softest tone she has yet offered. The effect is both ironic and disarming.  
  
“Your Grace.” They all mutter, some more authentically than others. And then she turns, with intense precision back in the direction of the Dothraki.

 

“Ladies.” This time she offers a genuine smile and intentionally revisits eye contact with each of the women, transmitting a unique combination of strength and gentleness towards them as she takes in their attire, their posture and their subtle attitudes toward her. Two are clinging to the arms of the nearest bloodrider. A few of them nod while another two offer awkward curtsies.  
  
“I am Daenerys Stormborn.” She introduces herself with unusual brevity. “Your new Queen.” And with that she gets down to business.

 

“Ser Davos.” She inquires with respect. “Can you tell me what happened here?” She acknowledges the dead bodies in their midst.

 

“Still sorting that out, yer Grace.” Davos gives a remorseful tilt of his head. In the short time since he’s arrived, he’s not been able to get a clear cut answer from any of these men. The NorthMen have closed ranks around each other and have insisted that the Dothraki lashed out unprovoked. Meanwhile, the women had been shouting insults directed toward the Northmen. One had even spat upon one of the dead bodies before linking arms with a bloodrider. Davos is perplexed but believes the women are key to finding out the truth of what went on.  
  
Dany looks around expectantly only to be met with resounding silence. She sighs, understanding she is now the recipient of the underbelly of fear. She turns to Kovarro.

 

“ _Astat anna hash mahrazhi drivi.”_ She instructs an explanation.  
  
 _“Mahrazi shoris tawakofi aquorisok chicories. Kisha disse vijazerat eyak. She chomokh kishi khaleessi.”_ Everyone watches the Queen take in this explanation. Her violet eyes widen ever so slightly as she purses her lips. She looks to other bloodriders who all nod in agreement with Kovarro.

 

“ _San athchomari yeraan_.” Dany thanks them and then directs her question to the women.

 

“He says these men.” She motions with her hands towards the bodies while maintaining eye contact. “Were attempting to rape you.” She enunciates her words with forced precision. The NorthMen begin to voice their angry disagreement. Their protest infuriates her. With the flick of her hand, the unsullied stomp their spears to silence them. Even as Kovarro had spoken it, she felt the anger sear through her. She keeps her voice steady. “He says they killed them in your defense.” She softens her voice, evoking a maternal tenderness in her next question. “Is this so?”

 

The women share nervous glances between themselves and then one particularly buxom and beautiful brunette steps forward, boldly and with deference.  
  
“Yes. He speaks truthfully, your Grace.” A chorus of denial greets them as the Northmen yell in anger.

 

At the cry of “Lying savages!” She clamps her jaw together before slowly turning towards them, her violet eyes gleaming with silent fury.

 

“Ser Davos.” She addresses him, rather than the men. “If your men cannot conduct themselves in a _civilized_ manner, they may await their King’s return in the dungeons and pray his discretion is more merciful than my own.” Davos simply looks at them and sighs.

 

“You heard the Queen.” He shakes his head and points to one man.  “You, Daren. Tell her what happened. The rest o’ you. Bite yer tongues”

 

A man with ashy hair and beard steps forth, clearing his throat.

 

“With all due respect yer grace. These, erm, men, attacked Leobald out of right jealousy.” He nods toward the bloodriders and then towards one of the bodies on the ground. “He wasn’t harming no one.” Daren glances over at a blonde woman. “ _She_ liked what he was doing just fine until the _doe TH rack eye_ came along.” He pronounces the word with effort. “Anyway, they can’t be proper raped, yer Grace. See, they’re whor – prostitutes.” He delivers the line so downright informatively, she catches herself gaping at him before she clamps her mouth shut in comprehension and fury. She’d like to feed him to Drogon right then and there.

 

Instead, she levels a steely gaze at this Daren.

 

“I see.” She asserts, with a silky deadliness. “Thank you for your input.” She dismisses him. She takes a calming breath and looks back at the brunette, searching her face. What greets her is a visage of shameless dignity.  
  
“What is your name?” She asks gently.

 

“Esmé” The brunette replies.

 

“Esmé, what can you say about these accusations?” Dany carefully words her question.

 

“We _are_ professionals, your grace.” Esmé replies, with unequivocal poise. “Businesswomen.” She refines as the women behind her nod in agreement. “We agreed to do trade with these gentlemen.” She smiles graciously and motions to the Dothraki. “But made no business arrangements with the NorthMen.” She clarifies and wrinkles her nose with subtle disdain. Dany sighs in heavy understanding. She’s beginning to form a crude picture of what transpired and its complexity is a bit overwhelming. She thanks Esmé for her input and then turns to her hand.

 

“Ser Davos, a word?” He nods and steps forward. She motions for them to step aside and they walk several meters away keeping their voices low.

 

“Where is the King?” She asks him. “I think it would be best if he handles this directly. I fear punishing NorthMen is out of my purview.” She would like to burn them all alive but only after gelding them first and since acting out her justice fueled fantasies is out of the question, she’d prefer if Jon take charge of the burden his men have created so she can focus on mitigating the contention among her bloodriders. She feels righteous and downright proud regarding her bloodriders’ swift response against rape. Although she understands it’s taken years of discipline and re-education to train them towards such a response, she’s self-aware enough to also understand that her bias against the NorthMen is clouding her mercy.

 

Unfortunately, Davos doesn’t know Jon’s whereabouts so they take a moment to agree upon their corresponding roles with their respective camps. They return intent on retrieving all facets of the conflict and therefore, the following hour is not easy. There are many varied and disputing perspectives and although silent at first, once Daren and Esmé shared, everyone else who was present for the killings now feels pressed to share their versions as well. While listening to Betsy, the pretty blonde who’d been attacked by one of the now deceased Northmen, Dany finds herself struggling for composure. The gruesome details of the attack, although relatively typical, begin stimulating her early and brutal memories of the grass sea, of her bruised and bleeding thighs, of her aching days atop horseback and of the nights she fantasized about death, so agonizing were her nightly rapes. The dead men remain sprawled on the ground, entrails beginning to attract flies and despite the cool breeze in the air, the scent doesn’t seem to abate. She tries to listen to everyone with uniform equanimity but recognizes that she made up her mind long ago and therefore struggles to infuse each account with equal presence. But it is not just the dead bodies antagonizing her. She’d accustomed herself to such gruesome sights early in her last pregnancy. It’s the entire nature of this conflict. Rape being an evil with its origins in power and control just like slavery, Dany’s loathing of this violence ignites her most visceral of responses. As such, she finds her stomach recoiling, the longer this inquiry gets drawn out. The scent of salt and iron, of violent sex and death, the sound of these women accusing loudly, bring back visions of the Lhazareen brutalized in front of her, of women screaming in agony and spouting curses upon their rapers. She was pregnant then as well, she remembers. So young. So naïve. This time she is Queen as well as Khaleesi. Justice will look differently. Nonetheless, the bile steadily rises in her throat. At one point, while one of the Northmen is defending his dead comrades, her nausea reaches such a decibel she breaks decorum and asks Kovarro to share a snack with her. He looks at her curiously but dutifully hands over his small pouch full of horse jerky which she proceeds to munch on gratefully, immediately more focused, as her belly settles. Never has dried horse tasted like such a blessing. When she catches Esmé smirking curiously at her while she chews the meat, Dany instinctually reaches out to offer her a piece. The woman shrugs and receives the jerky with a nod of gratitude.

 

The Northmen see this exchange and their already impertinent anger boils over. Not only are they also hungry and without immediate access to snacks, they correctly assume the Queen has already chosen to favor the whores. The resentment dovetails with their hypoglycemia to manifest in a swift unsheathing of weapons. Within moments, the Unsullied are in formation, the Dothraki have raised their arahks and the atmosphere is absolutely taut with precariously restrained disdain. Drogon, who had been lounging upon a disheveled tower spire for the majority of this impromptu hearing, arches his shoulders, raising his wings and shrieks in protective annoyance upon feeling his mother’s hungry anger.

 

Daenerys is poised to call him down so she can de-escalate the crowd through intimidation and force, when the clack of approaching hooves alerts them all to the incoming King. There he is, her dragonwolf, bounding closer with that precise riding posture of square shoulders and bouncing curls and that stolid pout, trotting toward her with unwavering focus. His unexpected and comely entrance erodes at her internal tension and she finds herself smiling with relief before she straightens her mouth back to its queenly purse.  
  
From atop his horse, Aegon observes the aggressive stances of the various military formations with Daenerys’ small silver head among them and instinctively spurs his horse forward. Drogon’s shriek both comforts and affirms his immediate knowing that all is not well in this courtyard. He is unaware that the horsemen behind him have also quickened in stride.  
  


He dismounts with grace and precision, leaving the imp behind. Curiosity and protectiveness course through his fluid motions, driving him toward his Queen. Every man in front of him has his weapon raised while his little love stands amongst them. She greets his eyes with an authentic smile of gratitude as he strides toward her. She is grateful to see him followed by yet more bloodriders however that they are all accompanied by even more westerosi women which gives her pause.  
  
“King Aegon.” She purrs, acknowledging him publically with respect and authority. He nods his head his steel eyes boring into hers.  
“Queen Daenerys.” He moves forward to stand beside her, his body screaming for contact but he refrains from putting his arms around her waist or shoulders. Instead, he boldly takes her hand and brings it to his plump lips, without breaking eye contact. He watches in satisfaction as her pupils expand before he releases her and looks around, noting the densely somber air about him. He frowns as he sees Davos scowling heavily. Dany breaks the sensual formality of their exchange by touching his elbow, angling her body ever so slightly toward him, while projecting her voice toward the crowd.

 

“Your grace, you arrive with such auspicious timing.” She lies with ironic humor, her violet eyes boring into his. “I was just taking my leave, however Ser Davos will debrief you on the charges being brought against your men.” Her eyes convey a small apology to him. His arrival is her opportunity for an exit and she will not squander it. She spares the smallest of glances toward the now despondently outnumbered NorthMen before turning to address the women in the group.

 

“Ladies will you kindly join me in the castle tonight?” She then looks up toward the darkening sky. The afternoon has come and gone, evening is fast approaching along with the possibility of another storm. “It will be a chilly one.” She proceeds, her tone deceptively light. “But I can offer some hot baths.” She smiles, framing this order as a generous invitation. Until this conflict has been resolved, she would prefer to offer the women an alternative shelter to the Dothraki camp.

 

The Northmen are appalled by her gall but wisely keep quiet.

“Our new friends may join us as well.” Dany nods to the rag tag women who are still atop the horses with the team of Dothraki that had come in with Jon.

 

“Please do offer these men a swift and proper burial.” She continues. “Drogon would prefer to make them a snack.” She nods towards the restless dragon and raises her shoulders feigning helplessness. Truth is, she’s uninterested in preventing it.

 

They move together as a group, the six prostitutes, the three female jesters with the child, and Daenerys. All women, flanked by the Unsullied. Dany extemporaneously decides to house them all in the Maiden Vault. It’s the most well suited to house a bevy of women and the ironic justice of filling the historically oppressive edifice with professional sex workers is not lost on her. In fact, she revels in it. She’s sure her male ancestors would be furious and this pleases her. The decision is almost as sound as the building, however, it does require the additional work of relocating hers and Jon’s chambers. She sets to this task while Jon confers with Davos and tends to the remainder of the conflict.

* * *

She debriefs Ellaria on the task at hand, pleased to see the Dornishwoman come alive with the responsibility of hosting these women. She trusts that Ellaria will handle things and is making her way to leave, striding through the Vault giving various Unsullied instructions to make habitable a mostly undamaged chamber in the red keep when Esmé approaches her, looking troubled. Daenerys receives her warmly, offering her a gracious smile.  
  
“Are we your prisoners?” Esmé asks with restrained fierceness. She’s walked through the building and noticed there is but one singular entrance. It would be easy for the Queen to lock them inside and never let them out. Immediately Dany realizes her mistake. She’s not included any of these women in the process. Rather, she’s continued to make decisions for them and about them.

 

“No, certainly not.” She clarifies sincerely. “My apologies, Esmé, for not making that more clear. You are guests, free to stay or leave as you wish. However, for the night, I do request you not frequent the Dothraki camp as peace is still tenuous amongst the armies. I fear the presence of women may incite more unnecessary violence.”

 

The beautiful brunette, pauses, appraising her. She purses her plump lips and pouts at Daenerys with such practiced sensuality, it contrasts poignantly with the edgy skepticism of her tone. She arches a perfectly shaped eyebrow and bats her long lashes as she lands her sardonic comment.

 

“ _Our_ presence is the cause of unnecessary violence?” Esmé laughs caustically and shakes her head. “Therefore it is incumbent upon _us_ to preserve _your_ peace?” Esmé asks without a hint of intimidation. Daenerys eyes widen despite herself. This accusation is certainly not what she expected. She feels a flash of ire at this woman’s ingratitude but before the thought has fully formed, Mirri’s loud curses reverberate through her.

 

_Saved me? Three of those riders had already raped me before you saved me, girl.  
  
_

The memory is loud and forceful and she takes a step back, her head filling with a heady thrum of dulled pain. The effect is such that it appears Esmé’s unswerving attitude is the cause of her falter. But the memories of Mirri’s voice continues to reverberate.

 

_I saw my God's house burn. In the streets, I saw piles of heads. So, tell me again exactly what it was that you saved?_

She begins to feels an alarming sense of dread begin to pulse into her and a terrible frigidity drill into her marrow. As the panic begins to bloom, she resists by throwing out her mind as though she’s throwing herself off a tower. Drogon catches her. Almost instantly, as their minds merge, she feels the cold and panic recoil like a scared snake. The heat courses through her as does the sturdy confidence of his inimitable strength. As his sentience imbues and braids with hers, she feels like herself again. Formidable and not quite human.

 

As her eyes focus on the woman in front of her, she realizes belatedly that Esmé is staring at her confusedly waiting for a response. She resolves not to make the same mistakes twice.

 

“Esmé, I apologize.” She nods humbly. “In my quest to liberate, I have caused much damage that I am attempting to repair. It is certainly my responsibility, not yours, to avoid more violence, however, tonight I am asking you for your cooperation as I do believe you are in more danger than any of those warriors out there.” Daenerys offers this up with as much transparency as she can muster. Esmé glares her down defiantly for a few moments before she lobbies another query at the queen.

 

“Why do you care if we’re in danger?” Esmé asks genuinely. By this point, several of the other women have begun to gather around, to listen to the peculiar dialogue. The Vault, is not, after all such a large space that voices do not carry.  
  
“Because I am a woman, also.” Daenerys answers tiredly but candidly as several women approach. Esmé simply crosses her arms in front of her ample bosom, scoffing skeptically, emboldened by the company of her peers.

 

“We are whores and you’re a Queen. We are not the same kind of women.” Esmé defiantly rebukes her attempt at relating. The women gathered around share agreeing nods. Daenerys smiles sadly before answering.

 

“Have you not heard me referred to as the Dragon Whore?” Dany deadpans with a raised eyebrow. The elongated silence that follows is broken at last by the sudden barking laugh of one of the older women in the group. She is the first to recognize the dark humor for what it is. Several nervous chuckles follow as Dany herself offers an irreverent grin.

 

“Why do they call you that?” A meeker voice asks, sweetly.

 

“Why indeed?” Dany responds. “Isn’t every woman a whore in the eyes of weak men who believe anything, even love can be bought, bribed or stolen?” Blank stares blink back at her and so she course corrects away from the blithe philosophy that only Tyrion would find amusing.

“But truth be told, they are not wrong about me. In many ways, I am exactly what they say. A dragon whore, that is.”

 

A series of furled eyebrows and pursed lips scowl at this statement. Their collective skepticism challenges her. Even Ellaria raises an eyebrow at her, curious about the direction she’s heading with this. She leans into her explanation.

 

“When I was a young girl, freshly flowered, I was sold into marriage with a Dothraki Khal in exchange for his army.”

 

Several of the women exchange glances of surprise. Dany shrugs displaying casual indifference.

 

“Aristocratic marriage is simply the business of exchanging sex for titles and heirs. Is that not prostitution?”

 

She lets this statement settle as the women continue to exchange a series of alarmed and surprised looks. They’ve never given such thought to the marriages of highborn women. At this statement lands, murmurs move through the small crowd. She sees she’s certainly provoked some thought.

 

“Myself, I was fortunate. I received three dragon eggs as a wedding gift. My brother, my husband and my son all died so they could be hatched.” She shrugs again, downplaying those tragedies to make her point. “So, you see, they are not wrong. I paid dearly for my dragons.”  
  
Several women frown and look down nervously.

 

“Esmé, you are right. We are not the same kind of women. However, my husband was three times my size when he took my maiden head. If not for the generosity of a lysean prostitute who taught me how to leverage pleasure for safety, I would surely be dead. I will not pretend to understand the conditions of your lives or businesses but I do know what it means to exchange sex for security among the Dothraki.”

 

At this, there are no more murmurs, instead the women fall into a respectful silence, all listening intently and looking upon the dainty Queen in hushed veneration. 

 

“Thus, I invite you into this castle, that you may stay here of your own choosing as long as you wish. And if you so choose to seek the company of my soldiers, may it be from a place of choice, for pleasure, not out of necessity for survival.”

 

She bows her head at the end of this rather prolonged speech, only now feeling the slightest bit bashful for her extemporaneous outburst of transparency.

 

“Thank you.” A small voice calls out. And soon the women are each singing out their respective thank yous. When she raises her head to look at them once more, she is greeted by a chorus of gratitude and when she smiles brightly, her eyebrows furling in on themselves as relief spreads through her softening her shoulders, the downright adorableness of her gesture ignites more celebration from the women.

 

She proceeds to give the women a small tour of the Vault she’s come to be familiar with. She assures them that the Unsullied stationed outside will neither harm them nor force them inside and then confesses, despite her initial hesitation that they are, in fact, eunuchs and therefore incapable of raping them. The mood of the group is much lighter by the time she excuses herself, although they have been appraised that there will likely be a formal trial within the next day or so.

 

Before she leaves, she makes one last visit to hers and Jon’s room to make sure none of their belongings have been left behind. She is not surprised to find the Unsullied have been impeccably thorough. She is, however, somewhat surprised to feel the gentle swell of nostalgia move through her as she appraises the bed now stripped of its sheets. This room held them both through such a challenging week, offered them respite from the outside furies. She wonders if they are the first Targaryens to make love in this place and smiles at the silly irreverence of that thought. She hopes their next abode is just as hospitable.

* * *

 

He finds her beatifically sitting on the throne, Drogon curled around the chair, his massive head laying at her feet so the steps are entirely inaccessible. The slightest dusting of snow has settled around the rest of the room, but parts before it even lands near Drogon. Instead a halo of steam seems to radiate from around them. They look positively _cozy_. For a moment he thinks to leave them alone, but the dragon turns his head and blows out a near welcoming huff of acknowledgement. As he approaches, he hears her murmur something in Valyrian and Drogon, with obvious reluctance lifts his head to give Jon entrance. This time his huff is of the resentful variety. Dany giggles and murmurs something else in Valyrian which elicits a purring sound from Drogon who, with all the gentle affection of a colossal reptile, nudges her cheek before making his exit from the throne room. As he leaves, he makes a rather irreverent and threatening flick of his deadly tail and after he ducks his head, even Jon chuckles at the Dragon’s human like jealousy.

 

“He’s extra protective these days.” Dany shrugs with maternal permissiveness toward her massive son. Jon approaches the steps smiling at her and then pauses.

 

“Does … he know?” He asks. She simply nods, a sweet mysterious smile painted on her face. Aegon pauses to consider this as well as the other oddly poignant glances Drogon has made to him in the previous months. It’s fascinating, their bond. Regardless, it feels good to know the dragon is looking out for his mama.

 

“They’re preparing our new chambers.” He small-talks as he ascends the steps. She continues to nod and smile at him. She playfully pats the space beside her, inviting him to squeeze in next to her.  He shakes his head and chooses, instead to kneel down, resting his hands and his head on her thighs. When she strokes her hands through his hair, he lets out a long pensive sigh.

 

Sorting things out with his men was rough. Even now, he knows things aren’t sorted. His men are rife with resentment. They’re convinced they’ve been wronged. That their comrades’ deaths were unjustified murders, that the prostitutes are liars and that the Queen is in blind collusion with savages. They also know they are outnumbered. They are ready to leave. With or without his escort to the trident. He reluctantly lifts his head up and sets his chin on her knees, feeling like a little boy gazing up at her and immediately receiving the comfort of her smile.

 

“My men don’t want a trial; they want to leave.” He offers. She sighs, unamused but accepting.

 

“What do you think is best?” She asks softly, welcoming his perspective.

 

“Both.” He replies, honestly. She nods with a dash of weariness and pats his shoulder.

 

“Let’s get to bed then, eh?” She smiles in camaraderie. Tomorrow will be another long day. He nods and rises to his feet.

 

As he comes to stand in front of her, she changes her mind as swiftly as the wave of his musk washes over her. Drogon’s heat still lingers inside of her. The power of his presence and the pride of her own accomplishments reverberate through her, hungry for a reward. So, instead she leans back to admire him. Dark lashes over dark eyes, plump lips curved ever so slightly toward her. He is achingly comely and so utterly devoted, her dragonwolf. The feel of the throne beneath her emboldens her. They both deserve a reward. She leans forward, fingers nimbly gripping the belt of his breeches.

 

“Wait.” She orders and he freezes underneath her touch. He’s stunned, so certain he’s misinterpreted until she’s so thoroughly unbuckled him that he hears his own involuntary groan and realizes this is actually happening. He stills her hands with his own, despite the ache in his groin.

 

“Dany.” He warns, his voice husky with embarrassed desire. He shakes his head at her and then looks over his shoulder, sure her queensguard are standing nearby. He is bemused to see an empty throne room, powdered with snow, the half broken pillars the only figures to bear witness.

 

“Our chambers aren’t ready yet.” She explains with faux innocence while deftly slipping a small hand inside his pants, surreptitiously cupping his stones. He exhales a warning sigh. This is far outside his comfort zone. She liberates his member and he winces as much for his reticence as for the onslaught of cold air

 

“Dany, it’s cold.” Her laughter rings out before he’s fully realized the un-cleverness of his excuse.

 

“Good thing I’m a bride of fire.” She delivers, in a voice so husky it makes him tremble with the threat she unleashes. And indeed, she is. Just her exhale against his swelling tip, is a burst of tropical air compared to the chilly ambient temperature. And that is nothing compared to the lavish decandence of being inside her torridly moist mouth. It is known.

 

Dany revels in this. Stroking him, while holding unrelenting eye contact, appreciating how his chest heaves as he tries to control his breath. She strokes him until he’s turgid as the pillars behind him and his pupils are wide and dark as dragonglass caves.

 

“Is this alright?” She asks sweetly, gently releasing her grip, allowing him a moment for proper consent. He swallows forcibly, pressing his heels into the stone as he slowly pries his jaw part, letting out a feral grunt in the process. She smiles softly, her eyebrows furling into a playful question.

 

“Aye.” He finally manages to eek out, as the swirl of the snow spirals into stars around him, as Drogon’s gleaming eye glows from the depths of the darkness, as she envelopes him with lips like militant roses – deadly and lovely. _This_ , this unprecedented union, this defiance of protocol and of tradition, of all things previously known and accepted as alright. It is everything he’s ever known to be wrong, yet it is devastatingly right.

 

* * *

The trial is as unpleasant but more brief than either of them expected. Perhaps this is due to Drogon insisting on his presence in the throne room throughout. Perhaps it is because his Northmen have more sense after all. Perhaps it is because a snow storm is coming and nobody particularly wants to spend the day in a drafty and frigid open air chamber. Perhaps it is all of the above.

 

The cultural differences are painfully evident but near impossible to bridge. Never has Missandei’s now absent contribution been so glaringly and agonizingly obvious. Daenerys is the only person fluent in all three languages and even so, she is not accustomed to performing her own translation duties. She does her best, flitting gracefully back in forth between dothraki and the common tongue, occasionally dipping into Valyrian. But the concepts, no matter how precise her words, are exceedingly challenging for either group to comprehend about the other. He sees her occasionally rub her temples and wonders at how much her head must be thrumming with all these clashing tongues and cross firing concepts ricocheting about in there.

 

By the end of it, he’s not sure it was worth a day of stress for her and nearly regrets not doling out punishment himself. She patently disagrees. Daenerys understands the need for pageantry and mollifying performance. Her first act as ruler is exceedingly aesthetic. Atop her throne in her finest crimsons, Drogon laying behind her, she does her best and it does not go unnoticed for although the audience is small, the trial is open to the public. What’s most important to her is that by the end, it is clear to everyone what the law is moving forward: rape is punishable by death. It is not enough for the Unsullied and the Dothraki to understand the consequences of transgressing her laws, it is important for the Westerosi to comport themselves accordingly. The ramifications and rumors will certainly reverberate through the kingdoms.

 

Nobody else is further punished. She deems the three deaths justice enough. The Northmen begrudgingly accept the ruling. They ask for permission to return home. The prostitutes ask for permission to resume business at their own discretion. The dothraki ask for a celebration.

 

The trial is adjourned on this note: Jon contemplating his travel plans and Daenerys contemplating the need for sensual celebration amidst all this violence. Her people are exuberant and passionate people accustomed to revelry to match their ferocity. Winterfell did not provide them an adequate celebration. Neither had she at Dragonstone. They have repeatedly fought and won victories yet they have not been rewarded, have not feasted, or danced or fucked openly under the stars. No wonder they efficiently sought out and successfully found such merriment for themselves. She applauds their ambitious adaptibility as much as she berates herself for her cultural oversights. As they adjourn she considers how to best host a celebration worthy of their loyalty, one which might also unite these acrimonious armies.

* * *

_She is walking towards her throne. Viserys is there, sitting in languor, one leg irreverently draped over the right arm of the throne, appearing smug despite the molten gold disfiguring his head._

_“Get off; you’re dead.” She commands him, annoyed at his imposition. He casually brings his leg down and opens his arms out to her as though to welcome her into his lap. She shakes her head as she strides angrily closer._

_“I loved you, sister.” He pouts at her, arms still outstretched. She pauses just below the dais and out of his reach, arms on her hips, angry at his defiance. He shrugs unbothered by her anger._

_“This was supposed be mine.” He puffs, trailing a sensual finger over the iron arm and settling back more comfortably. “And you were supposed to be my wife.” He snarls at her. “To bear my children.” At this, his purple eyes tear away from hers and strike at her abdomen. “ **Pure** , dragon children.” He murmurs with a whining wistfulness.  
  
“Not this again.” She rolls her eyes at him, unimpressed by his complaints and takes a step up toward the throne. “You were no dragon.” She proceeds boldly, glaring at his pathetically burnt face. “Though I named one after you.” He continues to scowl at her; she continues forward. “And **that** is mine.” She takes another step up, indicating the throne with her chin and waving him off with a flick of her wrist. And then she is standing level with the throne, glaring down at his insolent and absurdly melted face, pouting up at her. His posthumous audacity is enraging. Finally, he lets out a last sulking sigh and reaches up a hand to her, defeatedly. She reaches down her own to help him up without calculating the mistake. In a flash of strength, he is standing tall and he’s pulled her close, her hand gripped tight in his embrace while he looms down upon her, with melted features that have now menacingly shed their comicalness. She takes a repulsed step back, only to feel the edge of the step slippery with snow behind her. He pulls her closer and angles her body nearer to the throne as he reaches up to caress her face with a grimy familiarity she loathes._

_“I took care of you. I loved you. I taught you who you were.” His tone is achingly gentle yet the grip on her wrist is viciously tight. She sneers up at him defiantly, despite the pain, refusing to acknowledge his intimidation. “Who are you?” He taunts, voice dripping with false tenderness._

_“I am the Queen.” She boasts with defiant honesty. “And you’re dead.” She reminds him derisively, while ripping her wrist out of his hand._

_“Say it again.” He murmurs, his half melted purple eyes lighting up feverishly._

_“I am the Queen.” She repeats with confidence, while turning so her back is now to the throne. He smirks at her and with a strange sneer of arousal groans at her._

_“One more time.” He insists, leaning in. Feeling the heat of his breath on her face, she disgustedly pushes him away. And then her jaw is gripped in his hand and he’s squeezing her face. “You’re a little dragon whore is what you are.” He licks his lips. “Always have been, always will be.”_

_A flash of indignant anger sears through her. She lands two palms flat on his chest, braces her feet into the floor and pushes him away firmly. He doesn’t budge, grinning instead. This infuriates her. She puts more effort into it, pushing him harder. He smirks wider, bringing two hands to lace around her wrists and with an irreverent push, she stumbles backwards, plopping sharply onto the cold seat of the hard throne._

_  
“Remember this game, little sister?” He asks, smiling venomously as his fingers begin to swiftly unclasp the belt tie around his breeches. Her ass is smarting and she looks up at him as he approaches, worry beginning to join her fury. She shakes her head only just now feeling a shiver fear. This is not real. He is not real. This is her throne. He is dead. Deadly. Only a dream. But then his cock is out, already growing in his hand and she feels the frigid iron under her ass and shifts backward realizing how horridly trapped she now is. She shifts one hand to grip the arm of the throne only to feel a throbbing sharpness slice through. She instinctively brings a stinging bleeding finger to her mouth as he steps closer._

_“That’s right, Dany.” He smirks as he strokes himself. “Bloody is just the way I like it.”_

_Her fury sears through her and she lifts a heel to kick at him, which he expertly throws to the side, lunging between her legs to take her neck with the hand that had previously held his member. He is hovering above her now, pressing her against the back of the throne with his weight. His grip on her neck is terrifyingly familiar and yet her fury surpasses her fear. No. Not again. This isn’t real. She lifts a knee to kick him in the groin. He responds with a theatrically lascivious groan. He brings his face to hers, and licks the drops of blood from her lips, smacking his own as his grip around her neck tightens. He’s so close, she sees the pupils of his purple eyes bloom like spilled ink, engulfing the irises and the whites so there are only sockets of blackness leering out of his half melted face. At this she begins to fight, with all the rabid strength of a wild beast. She lashes out, all elbows and knees, teeth and nails, vicious and uncaring - feral. He will not have her. He lifts a leg to the seat, his cock wagging at half-mast aiming toward her mouth and she manages to maneuver away sliding out between his legs, to the edge of the throne intent on bolting when she feels a twisted grip on her hair and then she’s sprawled at the foot of the throne, skull smarting and gasping for air._   
  
_He’s standing above her, a boot keeping her loose hair pinned to the floor, a sword in each hand, one pink tipped and aimed at her mouth, one steel blade aimed at her belly. She snarls at him, spitting her mouth full of blood at his feet. He scoffs._

_“Mother of what, now?” He sneers as the blade digs deeper through her robes. “How many mongrels will you bleed out before you understand, your womb is unfit for impure seed?” At this Viserys beings to pump and laugh until he spills on her, his own face contorting in gruesome pleasure as his jaw falls away, smoking, and blood and molten blood run from his mouth._

* * *

When she awakens gasping, and drenched in a feverish sweat, she reaches immediately between her thighs, which are alarmingly slick with a warm moisture. She flings off the covers and bolts out of bed, bare feet to frigid floor, only achieving two steps toward the chamber pot before she feels a hot gush of fluid spill down her thighs. She cringes in anticipatory agony and reaches down to touch with her hand but when she brings her slick fingers up to her face, she smells salt instead of iron. They are not covered in blood like she expects but simply coated in viscous seed, which continues to trail steadily down to her ankles, dripping upon the stone floor. In any other moment, she’d laugh at the absurdity of her confusion but her heart is still pounding in her chest, her brow still pebbled with perspiration. The terror and horror and certainty still too real in her body. She shivers as much from the cold as from the vestiges of distress still pulsing through her. She makes her way to the chamber pot, gingerly squatting, relieved as much to empty her bladder as by the thorough absence of red.

 

She’s not bleeding. She’s not cramping. She’s not dying. It was just a dream. It’s not like last time when she was all alone with only grumpy grass and petulant Drogon for company. Drogon. She reaches out her mind to him, linking to his as easily as it once was to reach out and clasp Missandei’s hand. Whom of the two is more perturbed, she’s not sure. She immediately feels his frustration. The sensation is an irritant to her very skin, which prickles as though she’s in a bog of mosquitoes. She swats the air around her even as she understands the futility of the act. The decibel of his frustration increases as do the biting sensations. Her son cries out; she is driven to protect him.

 

It is still dark, the room barely lit by embers but she has the wherewithal to retrieve a silk robe from the foot of the bed and drape it around her body as she steps towards the door.

 

“Dany?” She hears his groggy voice call to her as she creaks the door ajar. She murmurs an assurance as she steps out, closing the door behind her. Her night guards, three Unsullied and three bloodriders are immediately attentive. “ _Umbagon_ ” She mutters as she steps between their formation, forgetting, in her hurry, to direct the order in Dothraki. The frantic prickling, the disturbed frustration, drives her down the hall in search of her son. She must reach him. Several more steps and his distressed shriek pierces her ears and heart. She breaks into an outright run, bare feet gently slapping the stone corridor. She doesn’t notice the bloodriders beside her, or the door that opens behind her as she turns the corner.

 

She feels pulled to him as a moth to a flame, as a magnet to a metallic rock, as river to ocean, as a mother to a child. She pays no attention to her surroundings, driven forward entirely by the strength of their irrevocable bond. As she nears him, she slows. This area of the keep is jagged and open, large stone pieces still lying haphazardly where they fell. There he is, her baby, iridescent scales lit by moonlight, he is surrounded by broken stone and by a malevolent fog, in a frantic dance of distress, his shoulders and wings tremoring, his long neck and head similarly shaking side to side, eyes squeezed shut, while his tail flicks with angry franticness, thwacking at the myriad of tiny stabs. He is being subsumed, attacked by an amorphous cloud of smoke … no, of flapping dark demons with claws as beaks.

 

She stands still for just a moment, taking this image in, in livid horror. She can feel every stinging peck that Drogon is receiving from this nebulous dark cloud that seems to move with deadly discernment and unity. The scene reminds her of a humid night in the grass sea when she watched a young horse who wandered into a swamp be devoured to the bone by a cloud of mosquitoes. She immediately regrets this memory as it ripples more distress through Drogon. Instead, she digs more deeply into their bond, deep into a place of ancient and determined protective fury. The sting of the physical sensations are muted as she feels the molten potency of their cooperative fortitude. And then she knows exactly what she must do. They both do. She doesn’t notice how the falling snow radiates off her in a halo of steam but Jon does as he approaches, shirtless, dressed only in linen breeches and flanked by the three unsullied. In unison, they turn away from another - Drogon and Dany – each focused on their respective destinations. She pivots around, never acknowledging Jon, whom she does not notice, as Drogon scampers forward blindly, lifting his wings for a rapid take off. She moves more swiftly than the dragon, at least in the beginning, in a sprint so swift it forces the unsullied to break the stilted unison of their marching steps, in order to follow her. Unencumbered by armor, Jon runs more closely behind her, simultaneously frustrated and impressed by her remarkable agility. She seems utterly unencumbered by the cold or by the obstacles of strewn rocks. In fact, he watches her sidestep a rock with so much grace, he’s sure he would have tripped himself if her form had not indicated it.

 

She leaps over the cavernous crack in the map room, with the grace of a dancer and continues to run, undeterred by the large fallen stones blocking her path toward the spire leading up. She feels the pressure of the dark cloud pecking and badgering at her face, at his, at them both. It is a frigid and sharp sensation, unrelentingly vicious and malevolent in its pecking. She climbs up over a boulder as she digs her awareness deeper, transmits confidence into Drogon and receives it tenfold back. They are a closed circuit in a reciprocal union of ferocious resilience. She looks up and smiles, feeling his nearness as she slows her sprint to a mindful scamper so as to stay near to the core of the splintered spiral. The steps are jagged and she is grateful for the moonlight which illuminates what could otherwise be deadly and unstable cracks.

 

He can see her in the distance, silver hair flying loose behind her, the pitter patter of her bare feet echoing against the stone walls that glow slightly in the moonlight. “Dany!” His voice catches in his throat as he sees her haul herself over what should be a stone blockade. He loses sight of her until he too scales the boulder and the terror that sears through him is as sharp as a blade through his heart. He knows this spire is set to collapse. It was half destroyed in her razing and has continued to spittle stones daily. Yet she is continuing up. Up a staircase that leads to nowhere.

 

He follows.

 

“Dany.” He calls lovingly, careful not to yell too harshly. Careful not to startle her. He’s half certain she’s sleep walking and is afraid to wake her. She is standing, at the edge of the staircase, where the jagged stones end, beyond which there is nothing but an interminably long and desolate descent onto strewn rocks. Up this high, the wind is whipping at her untamed hair and scattering the long silk robe that is loosely wrapped about her body.

 

She stands in wonder and readiness. The moon has illuminated the remainder of the keep beneath her. If not for the drifting snow and the intermittent shifting of the storm clouds, she’s certain she could see the entirety of the city from this vantage point. The crispness of the air is refreshingly clean. She feels invigorated by the chill, so alight by her inner heat that the cold is more a gift than a nuisance. She waits, poised, imbued with the stolid certainty of her ancient truth.

 

She turns when she hears her name and shakes her head in warning. No. It’s not safe for him to be up here. She motions for her beloved to retreat and return where he came, taking a step backwards herself, only to feel a slight crumble of rock between her feet. She grips the side of the spiral calmly to steady herself even as she sees the stricken look on his face. When he moves closer, she reluctantly steps forward to meet him. Drogon’s shriek fills the air.

 

He sees what she’s about to do about a half a second too late. Her violet eyes are fevered and bright as she leans towards him, offering him a small smile as she places her hot hand on his chest to nudge him backwards. He grips her forearm and pulls her to him but she pivots instantly, escaping easily out from the silk sleeve. The look she tosses him over her shoulder, is half anger half apology. But the sound she makes as she leaps is all wildness. All freedom.

 

It happens for him, in slow motion. For a moment she is entering his embrace and just as soon he is holding a flap of silk in his hands and her naked form is taking a flying dive off the side of this broken tower. He hears her name echoing relentlessly out of him in a horrified scream as he clings dizzily to the side of the spire.

 

She doesn’t hesitate. She feels a twinkle of frustration as Jon nearly disrupts the utterly necessary precision of their unified timing. She forgives him the moment her wrist wrenches free from his. She didn’t need that robe anyway. She’s free. She roars as her feet leave the stone. It is a roar of joy, of trust of certainty. For a few eternal moments, her body floats in the wind, as though she is flying of her own accord, as though she herself is winged, and then just as wondrously, he’s beneath her, as she knew he would be, all scales and fire and pure, raw power. Drogon lets out a welcoming cry as she lands atop his scales and she hears herself expel a grunt at the intensity of an impact that temporarily knocks the breath from her lungs. Even breathless, eyes smarting with a smattering of stars, her hands find his spines, her feet find their holds and her thighs grip with ardent memory. Even before her vision and breath return she has sunk into his awareness, become immersed in his vast and potent sentience. It is at once deliriously soothing and incomparably invigorating to be unable to determine the precise distinctions of selfhood. Is she a dragon or a rider? Is she a queen or fire turned flesh?

 

He is still screaming her name when Drogon swoops her up. Dark wings immeasurably spread wide. First down and then up, sideways and then forward, opposite to the very spiral where he still stands, clutching the broken column beside him. He knows she’s astride because the whiteness of her skin and hair is an unfaltering pearl upon Drogon’s back. And then he watches in sickened horror as the dark feathered cloud approaches them anyway. It becomes a bizarre skyborne battle between a dragon and an immense amorphous cloud of vicious ravens. He cringes as he thinks about them pecking at her bare skin. Drogon shrieks and begins to twirl in the sky with marked finesse, performing all manner of winged acrobatics. Angling to one side and then another Drogon expertly attempts to outmaneuver the attack of these miniature daggers, all seeming to focus on his face and back. He puffs minor jets of fire to scorch them away while simultaneously slapping at the cloud with his wings. Jon watches rapt from his vantage point, the nausea in his throat only slightly held at bay. The ravens seem undeterred, dispersing under Drogon’s attack but coalescing almost instantly. They have a preternatural speed. For a while the battle seems evenly met, alarmingly so, for how supposedly unbeatable a Dragon ought to be but then he sees Drogon disappear as he climbs impossibly high in the clouds and then just as suddenly from a completely different direction, he comes diving down but it is no simple dive bomb - he seems to have a precisely calculated eye on the cloud of ravens and directs a line of fire at them and then to Jon’s bemused horror, he begins to pirouette in the air, folding his wings, actually spiraling in a rapid free fall through his own line of fire. The result is an effective incineration of nearly half the flock and a centrifugal dispersion of the rest. Just as Jon is certain he’s falling too far, he spreads his wings and shoots up, zig zagging up through the sky, shooting fire at the re-coalesced birds. The ravens finally seem to surrender in alarming unison as the rest of the dozens of birds suddenly and with identical precision disperse rapidly in all random directions.

 

Drogon slows, recalibrating in a graceful circle over the keep and then turns remorseless in the direction of the sea and soars away.

 

Aegon still half naked, still clutching the rickety pillar and shivering in cold and despondency at the retreating form of his beloved looks up to see a flutter of black wings approaching him. He instinctively shields his face and eyes, fearing an impending attack. Instead, several birds land around him on the breezy tower and lazily caw at him in tones too domestic for what he’s just witnessed. One hops to his shoulder nonchalantly and Jon sees a note tied to its ankle. Even in the predawn darkness the direwolf seal is unmistakable.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, there you have it. I really poured my heart (and time) into this one and I sincerely hope it remains interesting. (Curious if ya'll caught some of my easter eggs. )  
> I'm also here to improve. So come at me with thoughts, critiques, concerns, questions.  
> Remember: comments are the only fanfic currency that matter!


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